Stocking-footed, Emily followed her mother into the dining room, her valise tucked under one arm and a pair of shoes dangling from each hand.
“Were you able to speak with Mr. Vitler?” Marie asked.
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
A rush of memory paralyzed Emily’s tongue. She couldn’t possibly vocalize what had transpired inside the lawyer’s office. Not yet. She needed more time to process it herself.
“Well?”
“We didn’t really talk about the letter.”
“What did you talk about?”
“I handed it to him, and he promised to send his response in the post.” It wasn’t a lie.
“I don’t see why you had to deliver the letter yourself if you didn’t intend to speak with him about it. Seems like a wasted trip to me.”
It was the only reason for visiting the city that Emily had shared with her mother. She’d had every intention of discussing her free labor ideas with the lawyer. His news had simply waylaid her. “I caught him at a difficult moment. He…had more pressing business to attend.”
“Well, I hope he’s prompt with his reply.”
“He had it sent to my hotel room. I thought I’d wait and read it with you.” She withdrew an envelope from her bag, pried off the seal, and unfolded a single page.
“Dear Mrs. Preston,
“I have read through your requests and proceeded to send out inquiries into the state of affairs on your other properties. I agree it is a wise and prudent course of action. I shall respond when information is forthcoming. As to your question of establishing a system of free labor at your primary residence, I’m afraid the obstacles are quite prohibitive. As you know, the state of South Carolina restricts the emancipation of slaves except by a special session of the Assembly…”
Emily ground to a halt. “It’s illegal to set a slave free?” she asked incredulously.
“It isn’t illegal, dear. There are simply precautions in place to make sure Negroes don’t become dependent on public assistance.”
“You knew this?” Apparently, Emily had missed a few key points in her history lessons. “If you were aware that we couldn’t set them free, why didn’t you stop me sooner?”
“I knew there was protocol in place; I just wasn’t sure what it entailed. I’ve never known anyone who actually manumitted a slave. But it isn’t illegal.”
“It might as well be.” Emily tossed the letter onto the table in disgust. So much for Jack’s fabulous plan.
Marie picked it up and perused the remaining lines. “Abigail’s in the garden. Don’t you two go anywhere. Dinner will be served soon.”
Emily found her friend reclining in a garden chair with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, eyes closed, absorbing the late January sunshine. “Cold?”
Abigail smiled, eyes still closed. “No.”
“Tired?”
“Always.”
“Dreaming?”
“Dreaming, wishing, hoping, praying. It’s how I survive.” She looked up. “How was your trip?”
Emily pulled out a print of Jovie’s face. It was a serious expression, more sober than she liked to remember him, but she’d captured the gentle fire in his eyes, even if she couldn’t recreate their color.
“Oh, Emily! It turned out marvelously! And did you come away with addresses?”
“Enough to start with. I also have a list of contacts at the Army Medical Department. Dr. Malone thought if I applied my father’s name liberally enough, I’d have no problem getting a complete list mailed to me.” Emily stretched the railroad from her muscles and sat down in the chair opposite.
“What about the blockade captains? Did you find anyone to mail your letters?”
Emily affected the coy manner she had used on the captains to answer Abigail. “I most certainly did,” she said with a beaming smile and a flutter of wide, innocent eyes. “I told them just how brokenhearted I’d be if my letter didn’t reach my cousin, who promised to deliver it to my poor, sufferin’ pappy, confined in a Washington prison, and after all the sacrifices he’d made for the Southern Cause.”
Abigail rolled her eyes in amusement.
The correspondence was part of Emily’s plan to canvass the North. She could think of only two people who might be able to help her—Missouri, of course, and Solomon Beatty, the Union soldier she had twice crossed paths with. It was a long shot, she knew. But the young man had shown her kindness on both occasions, and he had connections within the medical corps. She knew no address at which to contact him, however.
That’s where Missouri came in.
Dearest Missouri,
Please forward the enclosed letter to Pvt. Solomon Beatty, who is attached to the Medical Department of the Army of the Potomac. His supervising surgeon is William something or another. I’m afraid I only recall his first name because he shares it with my father; his surname escapes me. But if you visit Mr. Woodward, my old principal, I’m certain he would have it on record, as Mr. Beatty was involved in the evacuation of the injured who were housed at the Maryland Institute following the Battle of Antietam. I’ve stuffed as many sketches of Jovie into the envelope as would fit and am hoping perhaps Mr. Beatty can help me locate him.
I am also including some extra copies for your use. If you can think of anywhere, anywhere at all, that someone might recognize him, please share them. I would appreciate the address of any person, place, or organization to which I might send more.
Thank you, my dear friend. This means more to me than I can possibly communicate.
All my affection,
Emily
The letter was blunt and to the point, but she was sure Missouri would understand. Likely, she’d also read plenty into it. Emily had never confided her love for Jovie, but her roommate had held suspicions even when Emily thought herself in love with Thad. Missouri, she was certain, would make every effort to help.
The envelope had been extremely thick. Emily wasn’t at all certain it would pass through the border, or if it did, that all components would be pieced back together. Just in case, she had made two complete copies and visited the wharves in Charleston harbor. Blockade running within the bottled-up port had diminished greatly, but it had not vanished altogether. Using her wits and her charm, she managed to convince two different captains to mail her letter from their next port of call. There was no telling where or when that might be, but if either letter caught a steamer from Nassau or London, it might take less time to reach Missouri than the one mailed stateside.
Trudy approached just then. “Mrs. Preston want me to tell you dinner be ready.”
Abigail pushed herself awkwardly out of the chair. “Just in time. Baby’s hungry.”
“Baby’s always hungry,” Emily jested. Her tone remained light, but her eyes had riveted on the retreating figure of Aunt Margaret’s maid.
Her maid.
She hadn’t made the connection in the lawyer’s office, but now the truth hit her like a thunderclap. Along with her remaining assets, Aunt Margaret had handed her a role she never wanted to play again. Emily was responsible for the life of Trudy…and Stella and Paxton.
Once again, she was a slave owner. And the state of South Carolina had seen fit that she remain one.
***
“So, have you had a look at the new neighbors yet, Lewis?” Emily asked. She stood before her easel at the edge of the onion field where half a dozen slaves worked at chopping the soil and poking in the hearty bulbs. Since November, her “models” had taken to covering themselves with an assortment of patched garments. Now that mid-February had initiated the earliest of plantings, a few bare arms had begun to show themselves again, and Emily took the opportunity to refine her study of elbow, sinew, and muscle.
“Ain’t been there since October when me an’ Abel took Lune to help pull de Cutlers’ wagon outta de mud,” Lewis answered, wielding his hoe with the others.
“Has anyone been there yet?”
The Cutlers had moved out soo
n after Jovie’s memorial service and were living in St. George’s with Sophia and Matthew until the weather warmed enough to travel. Mr. Cutler wanted to try his hand at cattle ranching in Texas. Emily missed them all and wished them well. From what she understood in the papers, they would not find peace in the Lone Star State. But at least their new home would be free of haunting memories.
“Don’t reckon so. Not during planting. But Wilson say dere be a good deal o’ comin’ and goin’ yonder.”
All the Cutlers’ slaves had been included in the sale of the estate save for a few personal servants. Emily had tried to persuade her mother to purchase Sarah, but with the influx of help from the Charleston evacuation, no reason she gave seemed adequate. After an anxious week, Sarah had sent word that she remained at Fairview, and days of tension eased from Emily’s shoulders. She’d decided on the spot to buy her brother’s sweetheart as soon as Aunt Margaret’s estate was settled.
“How’s our food holding out?” Emily asked. The Commissary General of the Confederate army had been delighted with Marie’s offer. With Mr. Turnbull’s assistance, Emily kept a sharp eye on the amounts being consumed, the amounts being shipped, and the income it produced. Marie left most of the bookkeeping to her, and the more Emily immersed herself, the more she found she enjoyed it.
“Settin’ good, miss.”
“What about that rooster I brought back with me? Is he settling in?” She had spent a small fortune, but the jaunty little bird would be the key to rebuilding their flock.
“He already think he king. Ada set her oldest to mindin’ him.”
She sketched a series of quick, fluid lines across her page. At this distance she could hardly work in detail, but she studied the movement of the slaves, noting the shifting lines, the easy balance, the way every muscle moved in tandem with others, and she re-created it. By the time Lewis worked himself out of the range of easy conversation, Emily had filled several pages.
She cocked an eye at the sun. Afternoon was slipping toward evening and she hadn’t seen her father yet that day. Packing away her pencils and papers, she folded the easel and started for the house, her new wooden shoes sinking into the damp earth.
The force of William’s glare could have split rocks as Emily entered his room. She reciprocated with a beaming smile. It had become a ritual of sorts, she hiding the strain of her father’s displeasure while he took every opportunity to provoke her. A purposefully spilled drink, a stubbornly clenched jaw, the low hum in his throat when she read aloud. She chose to ignore the slights, because his progress was steadily improving.
“Look at you sitting up in your chair,” she praised. “Mother, how long has he been there?”
Marie set aside a copy of Eliot’s Silas Marner. As Deena had foreseen, she had not taken well to her daughter’s interference. Backed by a letter from Dr. Malone, Emily had easily outmatched her in a contest of wills, though Marie never quite relinquished her cossetting. “Ben set him there half an hour ago.”
Emily beamed at her father. “You see? You couldn’t do that last month. Do you feel strong enough to take your supper there, as well?”
“Emily, I think thirty minutes has quite taxed your father’s strength.”
“It’s Father’s decision. I want to hear him say it.” She bent to look in his eyes. “Will you eat in your chair or your bed?”
William scowled.
“Say it.”
After a baleful look, William struggled to form a word. “Ch—”
“Your chair?”
“Ye—”
“Very well, your chair it is. I’ll call for your supper.”
As Emily strode to the door, Marie argued, “William, are you certain you’re—”
An incoherent string of language cut off his wife’s protest. Emily bit back a smile. Unwittingly, Marie sometimes spurred on his recovery even more than she did.
Emily opened the door. “Lottie, send down to the kitchen for my father’s supper, please.”
Within minutes, Deena brought porridge and bread. Marie set the meal before her husband, fussing with a napkin in his collar and breaking his bread into bite-size pieces. Then she picked up the spoon.
Emily deftly snatched it away and placed it in William’s hand. The porridge was thick and sticky and would not dribble easily. “I will retrieve the spoon if you drop it,” she warned him, wise to his tricks. “But if you throw it, you’ll be using your fingers.”
With a rumble of annoyance, William plunged the spoon into the bowl, clinking it loudly against the edge.
Deena still stood at the side of the room, dangling a calling card between thumb and forefinger. “Missus, you got a invitation to tea tomorrow at Fairview.”
“Fairview?” Marie asked. “Let me see that.” She snatched the card away, scanned it, and locked eyes with Emily. “It’s unsigned, addressed to you and me.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
Marie frowned. “An introduction should include your father, too.”
“Oh, Mother. It’s probably just the new owner’s wife looking to make friends. No doubt they’ve heard about Father’s condition.” Emily knew how much her mother missed Edna. No doubt she would have found fault had formalities been carried out perfectly.
Marie set the card aside without further comment, which Emily understood as a gesture of grace. “Deena, bring me Mr. Vitler’s latest correspondence. I’d like to read it to Mr. Preston.”
A side effect of William’s improvement that Emily hadn’t considered was his renewed interest in the world outside his own room. Marie had joyously begun to include him in the decision-making process. His contributions were limited, but Emily had come to realize that the little bit of control she enjoyed would eventually have to be relinquished. She studied her father now, wondering just how much mental acuity he had retained.
Glops of porridge stained his lap, and the floor around him was sprinkled with bread. He conquered his meal with an intensity of purpose, fighting for every mouthful against a body that no longer obeyed his will. Pity swept over Emily as she remembered him as he used to be. Was it only three years ago he had waltzed her across the dance floor at her coming-out party, so strong, so handsome, so proud of her? With a wave of affection she had not felt in years, Emily stooped to kiss his cheek. “Well done, Papa,” she whispered.
The old endearment was not lost on William. His spoon paused in midair and lingered a moment before continuing its wobbly trajectory to his mouth. Suddenly self-conscious, Emily made an excuse not to linger.
Darkness had fallen outside her bedroom window, the brilliant punch of sunset aged to the color of an old bruise. Trees cast plum-colored silhouettes, each branch, each leaf etched against the translucence of the sky. Lighting a candle, she snatched her easel and re-created the scene, sweeping a page with olive, goldenrod, and lavender pastels. Then she blacked in the shape of Ella Wood’s silhouette.
“Sometimes I envy you the pleasure you take in your art.”
Emily hadn’t heard Abigail enter. She turned to find her friend clad in a dressing gown, loose hair splashing over her shoulders in curls and rivulets. The curve of her belly was pronounced beneath the lightweight fabric. Emily’s smile was haunted. “Sometimes I envy you. The pictures I create on a page can’t return my affection.”
Abigail leaned against the wardrobe, one slender hand smoothing its polish. “You’re right to search for Jovie. If he’s alive, I’m certain you’ll find him. But if he’s not…” Her hand stopped its circular movement. “You’ll have to find a way to move on. And if it should come to that, I thank God you have such a gift.”
“It’s a poor second choice.”
“Yes, but no one can ever take it from you.”
Emily studied her friend’s blooming figure. “You look so beautiful tonight. May I sketch you the way I see you now? For Darius?”
Abigail’s face softened with wistfulness. “He’s missing out on so much.” She took off her outer garment and laid it a
side. Clad only in a cotton nightgown, she embraced her swollen abdomen, molding the fabric against curves that stood out provocatively in the candlelight. With hair tumbled to one side and eyes cast lovingly on the child she carried, she made an alluring picture. “Would you draw me like this?”
Emily swallowed hard and put her pencil to a clean sheet of paper, cursing the war for its tiny, everyday thefts.
12
“Zeke, may I speak with you a moment?”
“Come in, Miss Emily.” He hadn’t even set his lunch down yet. She’d been watching, waiting for the moment he carried it to his cabin as he did every afternoon. “What dis be about?”
The one-room shack was clean and watertight but sparsely furnished, with a single table, two straight-backed chairs, and four bunks built into the walls. One of them contained a cornhusk mattress with a pair of worn blankets smoothed neatly over its top.
Zeke sat down in one of the chairs and gestured for her to take the other. She perched on her hands as he cut an apple into wedges. “Zeke, our plan isn’t going to work. Even if my mother agreed to it, which she isn’t inclined to do, it’s nearly impossible to free one slave in this state, let alone scores of them.”
“I knowed it wouldn’t be easy.”
“Were you aware that we’d need government approval?”
He nodded. “I ’member when de law change. I’s still a young man.”
“So how is it that you thought this would be possible?”
“’Cause yo’ uncle set me free. And he didn’t know half as many assemblymen as yo’ daddy.”
“Yes, well, any family connections we may have taken advantage of are fast becoming obsolete. My father is regaining an awareness of the estate, and our window of opportunity is closing.”
“Yes, miss.”
“You don’t seem very upset.”
“I ain’t upset. I be right proud o’ you.”
“For what? I failed.”
“Did you? Seems you put some good ideas in yo’ mama’s ear, which be ’xactly what you set out to do.”
Ebb Tide (Ella Wood Book 3) Page 13
