Path of Freedom: Quilts of Love Series

by Jennifer Hudson Taylor

  If he hadn't spent so much time pondering how he was going to approach Flora Saferight, he might have gotten more sleep. The girl, no, woman—the woman had a way of paralyzing his nerves. He had once thought of her as a girl, but after spending time in her company last night, he would never be able to think of her as a girl again. She cooked as well as his mother and had tried to argue her way out of going by highlighting his good qualities when she could have chosen to use his flaws against him. If only he'd been as considerate to her over the years. He grabbed a towel to dry his face and neck.

  Then there were the physical changes in Flora. Her coffee-colored hair now contained sandy highlights, and wisps of it kept falling from her bun and framing her square face. As a child her face had seemed too wide, but as a woman her features had softened. The freckles he remembered had smoothed into her skin and her wide nose seemed smaller.

  Her blue-gray eyes were bright and full of intelligence when she assessed him, claiming his attention almost to the point of distraction. Each time she had glanced at him, he had lost his thoughts on the conversation. He had kept quiet so it wouldn't be so obvious.

  The worst part had been when she had stood and walked from the table. No plain clothes could hide the curves of her figure as her skirts swayed when she glided into the living room. Once again Bruce had lost his tongue. Flora Saferight was no longer the annoying brat he remembered, but a woman with a power she didn't yet understand—an attraction that tugged at him like the current in a raging river.

  Bruce left his room and made his way downstairs, his footfalls resounding on each wooden step, announcing his arrival. The aroma of fresh-baked biscuits and sausage milk gravy drifted through the air as he made his way to the kitchen. Low voices rumbled in conversation.

  The warmth of the kitchen welcomed him, as did the smiling faces of his family as they paused in conversation to look up and greet him. Silas shoved in a huge bite, while his father pushed his empty plate aside and sipped his coffee.

  “Just in time for a fresh plate of warm biscuits and gravy.” His mother poured two large spoonfuls over steaming biscuits.

  “There's coffee left in the pot and some cool milk in a pitcher.” Father nodded his head toward the gray container on the table.

  “I'll take the coffee.” Bruce walked over to the counter, grabbed a clean cup, and poured the hot brew. “Everything smells delicious.”

  “Then eat all of it.” His mother beamed as she handed him his plate. She leaned over and kissed his cheek. He grinned and took his place at the square oak table. Bowing his head, Bruce prayed over his food. He cut into his biscuit and speared his first bite.

  “I told thy mother what Pastor John asked of thee last night.” His father raised a gray eyebrow. “Has thee made a decision on what to do?”

  To keep from answering right away, Bruce shoveled in his food and enjoyed the savory taste of his mother's good cooking. The soft milk gravy and buttery flakes of bread softened the sting of the spicy sausage, giving it a nice flavor. He swallowed, well aware of his father's hazel eyes watching him, waiting in patience.

  “Eli, let the boy eat,” Mother said. “He just sat down.”

  “Sure is good,” Silas paused long enough to say. “Think I'll have another plate.” He winked at Mother, standing up to help himself.

  A year younger than Bruce, Silas had dark brown eyes and sandy brown hair. With an oval face and an olive complexion that was darker than Bruce's, he was the real charmer in the family. He favored their older sister, Deborah, while Bruce, with his reddish-blond locks and green eyes, took after their two older brothers.

  Bruce picked up his black coffee and sipped the warm beverage, enjoying the heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. After a few moments, he cleared his throat. He couldn't avoid answering his father forever.

  “I hope I don't live to regret it, but I've decided to try and talk some sense into Flora Saferight. Pastor John seems convinced he needs her midwifery skills and there isn't another midwife young enough for the rough travel. Maybe I'll approach her next Sunday at Meeting.”

  “That's very sensible.” Father nodded. “I'm proud of the decision thee made, son. I know things have been difficult with Flora in the past, but thee must admit that part of the blame falls with thee.”

  He didn't need reminding.

  “Yes, all the times thee called her Beaver Face kind of branded her among all the kids.” Silas sat down with another plate piled high. Bruce wondered how his brother managed to stay so thin. “Thee even had the other girls calling her that.”

  Setting his coffee down, Bruce rubbed his eyebrows, a sudden headache coming on. “If only that was all I was guilty of. Yesterday morning I called her foolhardy.” Bruce rubbed his temples. “How could I help it? Before I went on my last mission, I caught her walking in the snow without a proper cloak. If I hadn't given her a ride to shorten her trip, she would have frozen to death.”

  “Bruce, she told thee it was an emergency. Irene had borrowed her cloak and she couldn't find it.” Mother shook her head. “If she hadn't returned with the doctor when she did, her mother may not have made it through that spell of pneumonia.”

  “Still, she should have done something to protect herself.” Bruce stabbed his fork into his gravy biscuit. “To me, that is foolish behavior and it makes me question if she's the right one for this mission.”

  “That's between Flora, the pastor, and God,” Father said. “For thy part, thee needs to apologize to Flora for past wrongs and set her mind at peace that thee won't provoke her on this mission.”

  What if she provokes me?

  “Why not go over there today?” Silas asked. “I could come along.”

  “What for?” Bruce turned to assess his brother, irritation gnawing at the back of his neck. All he needed was further distraction. Silas had a way of turning everything into a game, not to mention his flirting habits with the ladies. Flora had never seemed affected by his brother's charm, but how would she react now that she'd changed so much? No, he needed complete concentration when next he approached her. And today, he wasn't in that frame of mind.

  “The only time I ever get to see them is at Meeting, and most of the time that's across the room, since the men and women sit on separate sides. I miss our school days. Now we can hardly talk to a young lady without someone assuming we're courting. We belong to The Society of Friends—why must it be more than that with a woman friend?” Silas glared at Bruce across the table, a rare expression on his usually joyful face. “That is…we would still be good friends if thee wasn't always taunting and arguing with Flora.”

  Bruce could feel his skin turning a shade darker. “That was a long time ago.” He took another drink of his coffee and stood, pointing at Silas. “Not today. It's a bad idea. I'm going out to the barn to get a head start on the chores.”

  Flora woke to beams of light shining through the two windows in her chamber. She groaned, flipping onto her stomach and slamming her pillow over her head.

  Throughout the night she'd struggled to sleep, and when she'd finally dozed, a childhood nightmare haunted her—all too similar to her real memories. Her weeping must have awakened Irene, for she came in and tried to comfort her.

  Once again Flora was eight, and Bruce Millikan was nine, leading a pack of kids who chased her through a dark forest, calling her Beaver Face. The remnants of the chant pounded against her aching head, deepening the wounds of her scarred heart.

  Before the dream ended, Bruce transformed into a man. He folded his arms over his chest and laughed, his shoulders shaking with mirth. “Flora Saferight, thee will always be a Beaver Face.” His taunting voice sliced her to the core. In her dream, she'd touched her mouth and had felt two large teeth hanging over her bottom lip. Tears had blinded her vision, until everything faded.

  Was it a sign that she shouldn't go on this mission? She placed her hands over her ears as if to make the memories and dreams disappear, but they remained, threatening her confidence in
making a wise, unbiased decision. Fear coiled in the pit of her stomach. Why did she keep worrying about Bruce's opinion of her? This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman, and she didn't need Bruce's approval. Pastor John had complete faith in her midwifery skills. Shouldn't the pastor's opinion matter more?

  In all honesty, she knew Bruce would do his best to protect her and Irene. He had a reputation to keep if he wanted to continue on these missions. The real challenge would be getting along with him and not allowing his insults to hurt her. She could try to pretend that she was immune to him, but she knew the truth. He affected her in more ways now than he did when they were younger.

  An image of Bruce's dangerous smile burned in her brain, charming a path directly to her heart. Her pulse responded by quickening to a rapid pace. Of course, things would be so much easier if he hadn't grown into such a handsome man. A complete distraction, Bruce could rile her with his sharp tongue until she wanted to thrash him, or tip her mind into a daze with a simple glance.

  A soft knock echoed through her chamber.

  “Come in,” Flora called.

  The lock clicked, and Irene poked her head inside. “Mother wanted me to check on thee. It's an hour past dawn and the rest of us have had our breakfast. She made thy favorite—apple butter jam with biscuits.”

  “I'm getting up.” Flora yawned and stretched her arms over her head. “I don't want to get behind on my chores for the day.”

  “I'll tell her.” Irene closed the door, and the sound of her footsteps carried down the hallway.

  With a deep sigh, Flora forced herself from the luxury of her bed and padded over to the window in her bare feet. She fingered the pale yellow curtains. The bright morning sun greeted her, casting a golden glow on her cream-colored walls. A gentle breeze swayed the oak tree branches that barely reached the height of her second-story window. A few leaves had already faded to half green and yellow. Soon they would all be full of brilliant colors, highlighting the fall season.

  She shivered and rubbed her arms as she hurried to her armoire and pulled out a simple brown gown. Trembling from the nip in the air, her cold fingers struggled with the buttons once she'd donned the garment. As she washed up using the basin, she cringed from the icy water. That task complete, she grabbed the brush on her dresser. It slipped from her fumbling fingers and tumbled to the hard floor.

  Another knock sounded at her door, this one more sturdy. “Flora, is thee all right?” her mother called.

  “Yes, come in.” The door opened as she bent to retrieve her brush. “My fingers are so cold, I couldn't hold it.”

  “Allow me.” Mother carried a navy blue quilt in her arms and deposited it on Flora's unmade bed. She took the brush from Flora's hands and slid it through her hair, taking her time when she reached the tangles toward the ends.

  “Thank thee.” Flora closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of each stroke, as if she was once again a child being soothed by her mother.

  “Irene told me about thy difficult night,” Mother said.

  “I'm fine.” Flora clenched her jaw, determined to make the words true. If she didn't concentrate on it, perhaps the insecure feelings would dissolve. Eager to find something else to discuss, she glanced at the folded quilt on her bed. “Thee didn't need to bring me another quilt. I have plenty in my trunk.”

  “This is a special quilt. It doesn't belong with the others.” Mother twisted her hair and coiled it around Flora's head, slipping in pins to hold it in place. “There, that should do.” She patted the side of Flora's head.

  “Special? How?” Flora walked to her bed and lifted the quilt, studying it more carefully. “I don't believe I've ever seen this one. When did thee make it?”

  “When thee was a little girl. Let's open it all the way up. I have something I want to show thee.” Mother helped her unfold the quilt and they spread it out over the bulk of her existing bedcovers.

  “It's beautiful!” Flora stared at it, noting how this quilt didn't contain her mother's usual abstract patterns. “Thee stitched a road with several houses and a star by each one.” She fingered the stitched star over the first house. “What does it mean? I bet it represents how all the towns and villages are somehow connected through the path of life.” A wistful mood came over her, as she traced the detailed stitching with her fingers.

  “Not exactly.” Mother shook her dark brown head and glanced over at Flora, who had the same heart-shaped face as Irene. At forty-two, her mother still showed signs of beauty, with smooth skin, intelligent gray eyes, and a small mole at her right eyebrow that gave her a distinguished look. “I stitched this quilt after thy father and I went on our last mission. It's a secret map to thy cousins in Charlottesville, Virginia.”

  “Are they part of the Underground Railroad as well?” Flora searched the quilt for their house.

  “Indeed. They've been helping slaves escape these many years even after we stopped going.” Mother sat on the edge of the bed. “Each star represents a station, a safe home where thee may stay, eat, and hide. The trees along the road are where thee will need to camp. I've included towns on the side of the path in case thee needs to find food, temporary shelter or a doctor, but there are no stations in these places. Thee will need to be very careful and hide the runaways in the woods if thee must go to one of these towns.”

  “Mother, this is brilliant,” Flora said. “I've never seen anything like it.”

  “Listen, Flora, we've kept this secret because it must stay secret. Not all Quakers believe as we do. Some feel harboring slaves and helping them to freedom is breaking the law and causes us to lie in order to protect them. Do not trust anyone, no matter if they are Quaker, unless they are at one of these stations.”

  “I understand.” Sudden fear stabbed her chest at the serious expression on her mother's face.

  “Here is our house.” Mother pointed to a white house at the bottom of the quilt. “And this is Jamestown, thy first stop. It's called the Mendenhall Station. The next one is New Garden.” Her mother paused, looking at her. “After New Garden thee will enter into the wilderness and cross into Danville, Virginia, here.” She pointed to the next house. “Thee will camp for a while until thee reaches Lynchburg, then Charlottesville.”

  The map came to an end, and Flora worried her bottom lip. “But Pastor John said this mission will go all the way to Harrisonburg and end in Charles Town, Pennsylvania. Do we not have a map for the rest of the trip?”

  “Thy cousins will give thee instructions when thee reaches Charlottesville.” Her mother cupped her cheek. “Don't worry. We'll give thee all we can to make this a successful mission.”

  Relief flooded Flora as she stared again at the quilt. “Thee has named all thy other quilts. What is this one called?”

  “Midnight Star, since thee must travel at night and follow the stars.” Mother folded the quilt and patted the bed beside her. “There is more I must tell thee.”

  Flora swallowed, the responsibility of what they wanted her to do weighing upon her. She looked up at her mother with so much love and respect, waiting.

  “When thee is talking about an Underground Railroad mission in front of others, thee must refer to the safe houses as stations. The special wagon thee will be using is called a train. Bruce will be referred to as the conductor since he will be the main driver. The runaways are referred to as baggage or cargo.”

  “But that seems demeaning.” Flora frowned, trying to understand why they would go to this much trouble to free people and treat them as equals if they were to be treated in such a way.

  “It's only to protect them, I assure thee.” Mother laid a hand on her arm. “We had to come up with terms that others wouldn't recognize. If caught, the runaways could die and thee, Bruce, and Irene could go to prison. Thee must keep the code words. I've already talked to Irene this morning while thee slept.”

  “I understand.” Flora nodded.

  “Patience is key. If anything unexpected happens, wait. Thee will travel mostly at night a
nd hide and sleep during the day. Remember, if anyone tries to track thee, water will make the dogs lose their scent. That's why I've included rivers on the quilt.” Mother leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I love thee, and I'm so proud of thee and Irene.”

  Her mother spoke as if the matter was settled. How could she back out now? The last thing she wanted to do was disappoint everyone when so many were counting on her. She would be responsible for denying a young pregnant couple a chance at freedom if she refused to go. The thought filled her soul with too much guilt. Most of all, she didn't want to disappoint God. Long ago she had made the commitment to sacrifice her personal wants and serve God's will and the needs and desires of his people. This mission would be that very thing. It was the right thing to do.

  “We'll do our best, Mother.” There, the words were said. She had made a verbal commitment.

  4

  Bruce shook off his mounting frustration as he closed the side door to the kitchen and bounded down the wooden steps. No one understood his current predicament with Flora, least of all his charismatic brother, who had a way of winning women's affections. Bruce had an undeniable past of teasing Flora. He enjoyed watching her get riled up and unleashing her angry wit. Their sparring debates were interesting, challenging. No other girls ever compared.

  His most dangerous flaw was the fact that he didn't like to lose. He shook his head at himself, remembering back to how prideful he was, especially when he feared being bested by a girl and possibly losing Flora's respect and admiration. Now he realized, perhaps too late, that his vicious behavior had ended up pushing her further away.

  Morning fog still clung to the landscape. The rising sun cast beams of light through scattered tree branches, glistening upon the sprinkled dew. He breathed deep, smelling the drifting smoke from the woodstove pumping through the chimney above the house. Several robins whistled and sang, fluttering from limb to limb. “Lord, sometimes I wonder if thou created the mornings just for me.”