Emily already knew the story. Ketch had taken Herod along on the first part of his journey just to keep him quiet then abandoned him some distance from Ella Wood. “Herod never tried to escape again?”
Abel shook his head. “I reckon he still think on it some, but a beatin’ like dat hard to forget.”
Emily winced. Herod would hold no affection for her after her part in the events of that night.
“Are there others like you?” Emily asked. “Others who would continue working at Ella Wood even if they were free?”
She had asked the question to gauge the general mindset of the slave population, but Abel met her gaze with even speculation. “Some, perhaps. Wid de right motivation.”
Wages. Of course. Very few emancipated slaves would stay with her family freely as Zeke had. But some might stay for pay. Was that what Jack had in mind when he spoke of his future plans?
It didn’t really matter, she supposed. Until she inherited Ella Wood, she had no authority. And unless the Union overran the plantation, her father would never set his workforce free. Thanking Abel, she left the stable and went to check on her mother.
Ida answered Emily’s knock, stepping into the hallway and pulling the door closed behind her. But not before Emily caught a glimpse of Marie still sitting at her husband’s bedside, still clasping his hand.
“Yes, Emily. What is it?”
“How are they?”
Ida’s face filled with pity. “Your father was stricken only yesterday. You can’t expect something like this to—”
“How is my mother?”
Ida paused. “Remarkably cool-headed. She always is in a crisis. You’ve seen her handle illness before.”
“But this is my father.”
Marie Preston was every inch the ideal Southern woman—submissive, graceful, and unruffled. But sometimes Emily wondered if those pillars of feminine genteelness were actually just the fragile stems of champagne glasses. She feared another tragedy so soon after Jack’s death might shatter her mother completely.
“Marie is stronger than you think.”
The door opened behind them, and Marie poked her head out. “Emily, would you see that Deena administers Margaret’s medicine? I’m afraid I’ve neglected your aunt terribly this morning.”
Emily studied her mother closely. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she looked in control. “Of course, Mother. I’ll bring it to her myself.”
“Thank you, dear. I promise we’ll find time to sit down over tea. It’s been so long. But for a few days at least, until we know more about your father’s situation, he may require most of my attention.”
“I understand. Just don’t neglect your own health.”
Marie smiled and brushed her daughter’s cheek in a gentle caress. Then she and Ida disappeared behind the closed door.
Aunt Margaret was lodged in the largest guest room. Emily knocked lightly before breezing inside. “Good morning, Auntie.” She pulled back the curtain and lifted the window sash, letting fresh air stir the interior, though it did little to amend the temperature. “It’s after nine o’clock. Would you like someone to help you downstairs, or shall I have your breakfast brought up?”
“Good morning, indeed,” Aunt Margaret grumbled from her pile of pillows. “Not according to the little I’ve been able to glean from that tight-lipped servant girl.”
“Which one? Was it Lottie?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. Where is Trudy? Send her to me at once.”
“I’ll fetch her as soon as you’ve taken your medicine. What have you done with it?”
“On the corner of the bureau. The spoon is still there as well. Now tell me about your father.”
“I probably know less than you do. They won’t let me see him.”
The old woman muttered something unintelligible as Emily fetched the bottle and administered the proper dosage. “There, that should make you more comfortable. Would you like me to make you a cup of that tea you like so much?”
“I left the ingredients in Charleston.” Aunt Margaret’s face flashed with impatience at her own forgetfulness. “Coming here was a mistake. I can hardly bend my little finger without pain.”
“Had you stayed in Charleston, you might be dead.”
“At least I’m no longer your responsibility. You can go back to school.”
“I’m not going back to school.” Emily replaced the medicine bottle. “I’ll have your meal sent up. And if you tell me what’s in your tea, perhaps Abraham can locate the herbs in the garden.”
Aunt Margaret’s demeanor switched to one of pleading. “Would you, dear?”
“Of course.” Emily located a pen and ink in the writing desk and jotted down the list of ingredients. “I’ll take this to Abraham immediately. In the meantime, Deena can probably give you a full update on my father’s condition. I’ll see if I can find her. Let her know if you’d like to go downstairs or sit in the garden.” She kissed her aunt’s cheek and opened the door. “I’ll join you later for a game of dominoes.”
Emily took a dozen steps, turned the corner, and collided with a servant girl just reaching the top of the stairs. The child had dark chocolate skin, expressive eyes, and a slender figure just beginning to bloom. “Lottie! I was hoping I’d find you.”
“Sorry, Miss Emily. I didn’t see—”
“Oh, nonsense. I was too focused on my task to watch where I was going.” Emily smiled. The last time she’d been home, Lottie had still been a little girl shadowing Lizzie with hero worship. “You’re growing up. Has my mother taken you as her personal maid yet?”
Lottie dipped her head shyly. “No, miss. She say I too careless.”
“Well, I haven’t had a proper companion since Lizzie left. Perhaps you could fill her shoes. You remind me of her very much.”
Lottie’s eyes widened. Emily could tell the compliment pleased her. “I supposed to wait on Mrs. Thornton.”
“My aunt has brought her own maid, so it looks like you’re out of a job. I was just on my way to find Abraham and ask him to locate some herbs. Why don’t you come with me and tell me what’s been happening while I’ve been away?”
“Ain’t much to tell.”
Emily urged the girl to descend the stairs beside her. “How is your family? I haven’t seen your parents yet. Are they well?”
“Yes, miss.”
“How about Herod? Is your brother sweet on anyone else now that Lizzie’s gone?”
“Herod been horrible since—” Lottie met Emily’s eyes, and the exchange transported them back to the night they parted nearly two years before. The night Lottie had inadvertently told her brother of Ketch and Lizzie’s escape and Herod, in his jealously, had gone to tell Mr. Turnbull and nearly gotten them caught. “I be so sorry, Miss Emily. I never meant to let de secret slip.”
Emily put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “I know, Lottie. And so does Lizzie. It’s in the past, and we both forgave you long ago.”
Lottie tagged along as Emily located Trudy and then made her way outside to the gardens. “Do you know what happened to ’em?” Lottie asked.
“To Ketch and Lizzie?” Of course the little girl couldn’t know. For two years she’d been wondering. “They are married and living in Canada with Robin and Larkin.”
Lottie’s eyes grew wide. “You seen ’em?”
“No, but Lizzie writes to me often.”
The girl’s eyes inched open another notch. “Lizzie send you letters?”
“I taught her to read and write ages ago.”
Lottie continued to gawk at her in amazement. Then her eyes shifted to stare blankly at the list of herbs in Emily’s hand.
Emily smiled. “Would you like to learn, too? Then you could write to Lizzie any time you wished. And you could read her letters in return.”
Lottie stopped, and Emily thought her eyes might pop from her head. “It ain’t legal.”
“I know.”
She stood rigid for several moments, allowing the n
ew thoughts to work their way outward. “I’d like that.”
“We’ll begin tonight.” Emily started her walking again with a gentle nudge. “It will be our secret.”
Abraham helped them locate the requested ingredients. On their way back to the house, Emily caught sight of a solitary figure walking up the long drive. She shaded her eyes, and recognition came to her with a jolt.
She thrust the newly picked herbs into Lottie’s hands. “Bring these to your mother. Tell her to brew my aunt some tea.” Then she jogged to the back door and yelled inside, “Zeke! Zeke!”
The name was repeated throughout the house. Moments later the butler appeared.
“Peter’s here,” she told him.
He cocked one bushy gray eyebrow. “And the others?”
“He’s alone.”
They hastened to meet Betsy’s husband, the only Charleston slave on the farm wagon to complete the journey to Ella Wood. “What happened?” Zeke asked when they reached him. “Where’s everyone else?”
Peter straightened, pressing a hand against his back.
“Are you hurt?” Emily added.
“No, miss. Jus’ tired. De others decide to light out fo’ Union lines.”
Emily exchanged a look with Zeke. “Did they make it?”
“Don’t know, miss. Once de wagon fall far ’nough behind, dey turn ’round an’ head back to de Ashley River Bridge.”
Of course. The bridge was the only crossing for miles. “Did they force you to go with them?”
“Only as far as Charleston so’s I can’t warn you. I walked all night.”
“Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. Zeke will find you food and a bed. I’m sure Betsy’s been worried sick.”
As the men walked away, Emily shaded her eyes and peered down the driveway. There had been over a dozen souls on that wagon. An investment equal to thousands of dollars. But she wasn’t thinking of the money. She was remembering the haunted faces of the refugee camp, trying not to replace them with faces she knew.
Turning, she walked back to the house.
4
Two weeks later, Emily awoke to a slate gray dawn and the continuing throb of the cannonade. But it wasn’t the guns that churned her into wakefulness; that morning the fall school term would commence at the Maryland Institute. Her mind conjured up familiar images of Baltimore despite her attempts to subdue them—the Great Hall where preparations for October’s annual Exhibition would soon begin in earnest; Mrs. Calkins’ boardinghouse and the room she had shared with Missouri; the Quaker meetinghouse where she and Jeremiah had conducted reading lessons. Longing thickened in her chest, surprising her with its intensity.
Emily flung off her bedcovers and carried Dr. Malone’s anatomy book to her desk. Study might take her mind off school. Since her arrival, she’d found plenty of time to pore over its pages, memorizing the names of bones and muscles and examining how they fit together. She had stuffed her head full of facts, but their application still fell short when she tried to draw a body in any position other than the ones in the diagrams. Flipping through a pile of sketches, she scanned her latest attempt with dissatisfaction. She needed to work from a three-dimensional form, but where could she find a model so far from the city? She crumpled the page and tossed it to the floor.
Which of her schoolmates had returned for another term, she wondered. Had Missouri found a new roommate? Was Jeremiah still visiting Mr. Heatherstone? Did Daniel Harnish ever find a suitable assistant for his photography studio?
Regret swarmed like a hive of bees in her belly. She had chosen to leave school knowing that she couldn’t return. She had needed to go home. So why this sudden longing?
Since their arrival, Aunt Margaret had resumed her crusade to see Emily finish her education. Could that be the reason for this reawakened desire? Could the power of suggestion be to blame?
Perhaps. But not entirely.
She picked the daguerreotype of her fifteen-year-old self off her desktop. She knew the reason. The desire to paint, to create, had been a part of her makeup even then. She could almost see it in her face. Loss might dampen it, war might create higher priorities, but nothing could sever it completely. The Maryland Institute had staked a claim on her heart. She was torn between two cities, two loves, two worlds that straddled a war-ravaged boundary.
Emily gave up. Closing the book, she slouched down in the seat and let her mind wander where it would. She could picture Baltimore’s harbor, so like Charleston’s but unfettered by the blockade. Maryland, too, straddled that line between North and South. A slave state, it nevertheless enjoyed the benefits of remaining in the Union. She remembered with some envy the mouthwatering variety available on Mrs. Calkins’ table, the city’s busy marketplace, the state’s smooth, reliable rail lines. Living in Baltimore definitely had its perks.
Would Mr. Woodward take another group of photography students on a visit to Mr. Brady’s studio? Had Mrs. Calkins grown tired of storing Emily’s trunks in her attic? Had Missouri saved enough to purchase her own boardinghouse? Was Jeremiah still working at the dockside?
Her longing for Baltimore was made sharper by the fact that she hadn’t received a letter from either Missouri or Jeremiah since leaving Charleston, though she had only written to Dr. Malone last week and asked him to forward her mail. She didn’t need any new correspondence to know what was on her brother’s mind, however. Every letter she’d received during the summer had focused on one question: Had Emily spoken yet with Sarah?
Jeremiah had hidden his affection for the Fairview maid when nothing could be done about their separation, but he had confessed everything before parting from Emily last spring. He was still in love with Sarah, but he had no idea if she’d waited for him. Their contact had been cut off when William had moved him from Ella Wood three years ago. Emily had promised to help. In Charleston, she’d been too far away to make inquiries. Now that she was living next door, she could delay no longer, even if she feared what she might learn. It was far easier to report nothing than to tell Jeremiah the woman he loved had married another man.
A faint knock sounded at her door. Emily hid her sketches beneath a sheaf of blank papers. “Yes?”
Lottie poked her head inside. “Miss Emily, yo’ mama say if you be awake to join her fo’ breakfast on de patio.”
“Thank you, Lottie. Tell her I’ll be right down.”
The girl was pulling the door shut when Emily had a sudden inspiration. “Lottie, wait!”
She looked back expectantly.
“Do you know the Cutlers’ housemaid, Sarah?”
“Yes, miss. I know her.”
“Is she married?”
“No, miss.”
“Does she have any beaus?”
Lottie shook her head. “Coffey tried, but she won’t have nothin’ to do wid him.”
Coffey was a handsome, respectable young Negro, the captain of her father’s schooner. Sarah’s rebuff filled her with hope. “Thank you, Lottie. You may go.”
Rising, Emily washed her face, twisted her hair into a loose braid, tugged on a dressing gown, and joined her mother and Ida on the garden patio. It was the first time she’d seen Marie in five days. The table was set with biscuits, fruit, and three boiled eggs. A serving maid who stood unobtrusively to one side nodded to Emily and gave her a shy smile.
Emily sat down. “Good morning, Mother. Mrs. Malone.”
Ida answered her greeting, but Marie frowned at her attire with mild disapproval. “Emily, I wish you would dress before leaving the house.”
“Oh, Mother. No one visits this early.” At least she no longer complained about Emily’s bare feet. With shoes so hard to replace, even Marie had begun saving hers for social occasions. Emily unfolded her napkin and spread it on her lap. “How’s father?”
Marie’s expression switched to bright efficiency. It seemed a practiced motion, like playing the piano or writing her name. “Very well. He can’t speak yet or move his right side. But his eyes foll
ow me, and I’m certain he understands everything I say. He’s definitely getting stronger.”
“That’s wonderful,” Emily said. But the sight of Ida’s benign smile provoked suspicions to the contrary. Emily made a note to speak with her later.
The maid spooned food onto their plates. Emily popped a grape into her mouth and studied her mother more closely. “You look tired. Are you getting enough rest? If you fall ill, I’m not sure we could handle a third invalid in the house.”
Marie’s posture drooped slightly. “Margaret has been demanding. More than I imagined.”
The ringing of the hand bell at the old woman’s bedside had become as regular as the chime of the grandfather clock, followed by the scurrying of slaves to plump pillows, deliver cool drinks, fetch items, and tend every other whim Aunt Margaret could possibly imagine.
“You couldn’t have predicted William’s episode,” Ida told her.
“Nor would I have turned Margaret away if I had.” Marie closed her eyes. “But I do pray her rheumatism eases soon.”
“She’s bored,” Emily stated. “She has nothing to do but sit in that room and think of her ailments.”
Ida tilted her head to one side. “I think you’re right. Marie, you should give her a task.”
“Oh, honestly. What can a feeble old woman do?”
“Ask her to sit with William a few times a day,” Ida persisted. “Have her read to him, or play whist, or just make conversation. It will make her feel useful and give you a rest.”
Marie sipped her juice thoughtfully. “You may be right.”
Emily smeared a biscuit with jam. “Mrs. Malone, have you heard from your husband?”
“I received a letter yesterday. The shelling on the city has stopped, but no one is taking chances. All commerce has moved north of Broad Street and it’s business as usual.”
Emily understood just how loosely that term was being applied. “And he’s found somewhere else to stay?” She tried not to imagine her family’s beautiful townhouse smashed to kindling.
“He’s set up his practice in an apartment somewhere, though I’m sure he spends most of his time at the hospital.”
Ebb Tide (Ella Wood Book 3) Page 4
