by C. K. Brooke
“Wait here,” Jackey commanded her. “And no peeking!”
“I’m covering my eyes.” And Em did, smiling to herself that the child she’d once bathed and swaddled should now covet his modesty. Once she heard him scuttle off, she dropped her hands and waited, listening to a new breeze waft over the tobacco fields. Some of the slaves were at work nearby, but they labored in silence. Funny, thought Em. Mr. Grady’s slaves didn’t sing like her father’s did.
She stepped off the pathway, watching a robin redbreast hop along the ground. It took flight as soon as it noticed her, and docked itself in the tree overhead. Em whistled softly at it, but it didn’t return her call. She checked the sun’s position. Hurry up, Jackey, she thought, tapping her toe. She couldn’t wait around for him all morning. They had work to do.
Growing impatient, she moved off the path in search of the boy. She regretted covering her eyes and not seeing what direction he’d gone in. In his pursuit of privacy, what if he’d gotten lost?
She opened her mouth to call his name when another sound warbled across the humid spring air. Emeline closed her mouth, surprised. She hadn’t inadvertently made that noise, had she? No, for there it came again. It sounded like a cry of distress, issuing from somewhere near the slaves’ quarters.
“Jackey?” Abandoning her post, Em hurried to the wooden shacks behind the field. Why would Jackey have gone there, where the slaves lived? She came upon the squalid residences, a mixture of crude, one-room huts and workhouses. Perhaps her brother had thought the area would be empty, since its occupants were at work for the day. “Jackey?” she asked again, but was drowned out by the shrieking of chickens.
She passed the open door of the spinning house where no one sat at the loom, and realized her folly. Nobody was there. She had probably just heard the chickens. She turned to leave when the low rumble of a female voice carried out, “…you tell nobody, and get on outta here.”
Em halted in her tracks. And then, there it was yet again—that hoarse, human wail of distress. A woman was crying. Em held her breath, unable to keep from listening in.
“But, Mama—!”
“Shhh.” The deeper voice, belonging to what sounded like an older woman, hushed her. “I already gon’ be in trouble for keepin’ too long with dese hens.”
Lightly as she could, Em tiptoed to the henhouse, where the voices were streaming out. With bated breath, she stood concealed by the side brush, her back against the splintery wall. Hens squawked and the familiar stench of chicken droppings assaulted her nose. She tried to ignore it.
“Where else am I to go?” whimpered the second woman, desperation plain in her young voice.
“Don’t know. Far from here.” The older woman lowered her tone. “You shouldn’t o’ let this happen in the first place.”
“But what choice had I, Mama? The Master…he forced himself—”
Her mother shushed her again as Emeline’s pulse thumped in her throat. Ever so carefully, she angled her head for the briefest of glimpses into the shade of the henhouse. White and brown feathers littered the dank floor. Among them, an older black woman stooped over a basket of eggs, absently dusting them, while the crying slave—her daughter—stood trembling behind her.
Em’s eyes widened beneath her cap. The young slave’s belly was as round as a melon. There was no mistaking her condition, even as she loosened her filthy apron strings to obscure it.
“Gettin’ too big to hide now,” said her mother grimly. “An’ we all know what Mr. Grady gone done to the last slave this happen to. You ain’t gonna drown in no river.”
Em bit back her gasp.
The older woman sniffled, betraying her emotions at last, and dragged the back of her ebony wrist across her nose. “Now, go on, Beatrice. You’ll know what to do when your time comes.”
“I will?” The fierce tremble in Beatrice’s chin pierced Emeline’s insides with pity.
“It’s natural. You’ll see.”
Em couldn’t bear to hear any more. Quietly as could be, she lifted her petticoats and slipped away from the slave’s quarters, wishing she had never come. As she marched back up the field, words weren’t enough to describe how sick she felt. Of course, men did what they would with their slaves. But in her opinion, Mr. Grady was a disgrace. Forcing the women to lie with him? He was worse than she’d imagined—far worse.
She returned to the pathway, her hems dotted with nettles. She had to find Jackey and leave, in earnest. Though she desperately tried, she couldn’t banish from her mind the image of the frightened slave girl swollen with her master’s child.
“There you are,” chirped an energetic voice. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”
Relief flooded her to see her brother skipping up the trail. Em clung a protective arm around him and smoothed his mousy hair, as though he was the one needing comfort. “Jackey.” She shivered. “Let’s get out of here.”
As she hurried to the road, keeping him pinned to her side, the boy cast her a confused look. “Em? Is everything all right?”
“All is well.” She swallowed. And all would be well. So long as she would never have to deliver another order to Mr. Grady’s plantation, ever again.
Chapter 2
“Well, look who finally decided to show up for a hard day’s work after all.”
Emeline’s cheeks rose for the familiar voice calling over the threshold. She dismissed her brother to play and stepped into the blessed coolness of the house. Two long arms wrapped around her.
“How glad I am to have you home, if only for the day!” Em embraced her.
“Delighted to see you, sister.” Prudence waved a hand at her dainty nose, pulling back. “Not so much to smell you, though. You stink of chickens!”
The thought brought Em back to the henhouse at Mr. Grady’s plantation, and she frowned.
“Oh, I’m only jesting.” Her sister elbowed her. “In fact, your skin smells of honeysuckle, as always.”
“Speaking of honeysuckle,” Em crossed the fireroom on her sister’s arm, her eyes adjusting to the shade of the house, “I’ve a few sprigs I’d like to press into our soap today.”
“That sounds lovely,” agreed Prudence.
They found their mother rolling dough in the kitchen, her hands powdered with flour. “Rest a moment, Emeline,” said the woman. “You’ve walked quite a distance.”
“Are you thirsty?” asked Pru.
Em shook her head. “Thank you, but I had some cider at…the plantation.” Once more, the sight of the slave girl, Beatrice, burned her memory. Remembering the weight in her apron pocket, she extracted the money pouch. “Here you are, Mama.”
Mrs. Winthrop nodded approvingly. “Set it in the box with the silverware, please.”
Prudence took the pouch from her sister and did as their mother requested.
“Henrietta’s added the bayberry tallow,” the woman informed her daughters. “A few more hours and we’ll be ready for molding.” She mopped her brow with her sleeve. “Why don’t you ready the flowers and wrappings out in the sunshine? I must keep to my baking.”
“Baking? What for?” Though her legs ached, Em stood to inspect her mother’s work. “Pecans and honey. What’s the occasion?”
“No occasion,” chirped her mother, although she failed to hide her smirk.
Em’s hands found her hips in suspicion. “Mama?”
Pru took her sister’s elbow. “Mama’s only looking forward to hosting my handsome husband for supper.” She beamed. “Come, Em.”
In spite of herself, Emeline checked to ensure the coals in the baking oven were warm. Her mother wouldn’t need any help stoking them. Alongside her sister, she passed through the house and back out into the sunlight.
Prudence carried jars of dried flowers and a pile of cheesecloth. Spreading their petticoats about them, the young women sat on the lawn. Emeline sorted through the flowers while Pru took up a paring knife and began cutting the cheesecloth into measured, even squares.
> “And how is Mr. Bonworthe faring?” Em inquired, aware that this was her sister’s favorite topic.
A dreamy sigh escaped Pru’s lips. It was so unlike the otherwise practical young lady who was typically as prudent as her namesake. But Edwin Bonworthe had changed much of that. Since their recent marriage, Pru had become airier. She was as giddy over her new husband as a child over a baby lamb. “He’s faring quite well,” she gushed. “Working diligently at the shop and delighting in every hour of it. Oh, the pride I feel to see our name above the door! And I get to help stock the dry goods. There’s a lot of sweeping, I tell you. People coming in and out with their dusty shoes. But it’s a good trade.”
Em cupped a stem of dried rosemary and held it to her nose, inhaling the savory scent. “You’ll never go hungry, married to the town grocer. That’s for sure.”
Pru was watching her with an encouraging grin, and Em lowered the rosemary. “What?”
“Oh, nothing.” Her sister twirled a strand of honey-brown hair that had come loose from her cap.
“Does he miss the sea, even a little bit?” asked Em. Her brother-in-law had been an officer of the Continental Navy during the Revolution. It had seemed an abrupt shift to Em, going from the ocean to operating a store in Jamestown. But Mr. Bonworthe was young, and had made out well after the war. Unlike their father.
“Not that he’s mentioned.” Pru laid down a fresh cut of cloth atop her growing stack. “He fancies the stability of owning a business and working on land, I think.”
Em nodded, studying her sister’s calm movements. She recalled how lovely Pru had looked in her white linen gown the previous autumn, a veil of fine lace obscuring her shining face as she waited opposite her groom in the chapel. Em had never seen a happier bride. She could only pray for a morsel of the same happiness for herself, once her own wedding day should come. Whenever that should be.
“You seem thoughtful,” Pru noted.
Em sighed. “I was only hoping for a wedding like yours someday,” she admitted. “Things turned out so splendid for you.”
Pru reached out and touched her knee. “They shall turn out nicely for you too.”
“How can you be certain?”
Pru smiled her elder sister smile, which was equally irritating then as it was when they were children. “I just am.”
Em pursed her lips, continuing to divide the flowers from the herbs. It wasn’t that she was envious. Only, it was easy for Pru to have faith when she had nothing more to worry about. Meanwhile, far as Em knew, she could become an old maid. She was already nineteen years old and not so much as engaged. Some girls in town had been married off as young as fourteen. How was Em to compete with that, when she wasn’t getting any younger?
“Your day is coming,” Prudence assured her. “You’ll see. And then you’ll be as glad as Mr. Bonworthe and me.”
“If I was that glad,” Em teased her, “I’d probably burst.”
Pru laughed. “Maybe so.”
***
The crunch of horse hooves over gravel comingled with the rumble of carriage wheels rolling to a stop.
“Oh, there they are,” beamed Pru, wiping her hands on her apron.
Emeline looked up from the mold she was pressing. “They?”
“An old colleague of Mr. Bonworthe’s is in town,” her mother informed her, while the slaves, Daisy and Sara, quietly set the table. “Naturally, I’ve extended our invitation to him.”
“Oh, yes, naturally,” Em complained. “Meanwhile, I hardly look presentable for strangers.” She eyed her reflection in the clean sheen of the copper pan that hung on the wall.
As usual, Mrs. Winthrop ignored her daughter’s vanity. “Daisy, put the kettle on.”
A flood of sunlight and warm air poured in as the front door opened. Em peeked around the corner. It appeared her father had braved rising to his feet for their guests’ sake. He limped out to the porch, waving to a pair of gentlemen descending the carriage. Prudence squeezed past, eager to greet her husband.
Em busied herself moving the soap molds out of the way and lining them neatly in a corner. Men’s voices filled the fireroom, accompanied by a few giggles from her sister. Hastily, Em dipped her hands into the washbasin.
“Just this way,” cooed her mother, in far friendlier tones than she had used all day.
“Mrs. Winthrop,” came the stilted, formal voice of Emeline’s brother-in-law, and it was all Em could do not to roll her eyes. Pru’s husband, Mr. Bonworthe, could hardly bother to smile beneath his impeccably trimmed mustache. “I’m pleased to introduce you to my good friend, Commander Miers Redding. Miers, please meet my mother-in-law, Mrs. Jane Winthrop.”
Em looked up to see a tall stranger shaking hands with her mother. He towered over Edwin Bonworthe and her, his head an unruly mess of loose brown locks. Though dressed like a gentleman in crisp off-white hose under blue breeches and a matching jacket adorned with gold insignia on the shoulder, he gave off the bemused appearance of someone who had just stumbled into the room without quite remembering why. His lips wore a gentle grin for his hostess. But there was a sense of distraction in his ocean blue eyes, as though his thoughts were a thousand miles away.
“Charmed,” said Commander Redding mildly, releasing Mrs. Winthrop’s hand. “So kind of you to have me to join you.” Em was taken aback by the rich tenor of his voice. Neither had she been expecting the rather sophisticated northern accent. While something in his appearance might have seemed bumbling and disheveled, he certainly didn’t sound it when he spoke.
“Oh, and Commander, this would be my sister, Miss Emeline Winthrop.” Prudence took Em’s arm and steered her to face the man. Emeline had to tilt back her chin to examine him. Her first thought was that he appeared in need of a closer shave.
Commander Redding hardly spared her a glance as he gave her hand the briefest of grips. “Pleasure,” he murmured perfunctorily.
Em said nothing, feeling oddly slighted as he turned away and assumed his place at the table with her father and Mr. Bonworthe. Once the men were seated, the women sat too.
“Sara, fetch Jackey,” Mrs. Winthrop told the slave. “Tell him supper’s on.”
“Yes’m.” The black girl departed as the steaming kettle began to whistle over the fire, and Daisy hastened for the tongs. She proceeded to serve them tea in china, and presented before each of them a salad of vegetables from the garden. In the center of the table, she lowered a pot of stewed goose and the hot loaf of honey and nut bread on the cutting board.
Mr. Winthrop assumed the first helping of goose. “So,” he tucked his napkin into his collar, “was ‘commander’ your station during the Revolution?”
Redding glanced up, as if surprised to have been addressed. Em couldn’t tell why, but she had to swallow back a snigger. “Oh. Not quite, sir,” he answered in that musical voice of his. “I was promoted after the war.”
Mr. Winthrop nodded, breaking the bird apart with his knife. The men conversed as Em and the women remained silent. Eventually, Jackey stumbled indoors, plunged his hands hastily into the washbasin, and slipped into the vacant chair beside Em. Emeline reached into the pot with her spoon and broke him off a section of goose.
A lull overtook the table by the end of the hour, each occupant fed to contentment. Daisy removed the goose carcass and lit a set of pine candles in its place. “Well,” Mrs. Winthrop sighed pleasantly. “I suppose now’s as good a time as any to make our announcement.” She looked to her husband for approval.
Em glanced between them. What announcement?
Mr. Winthrop inclined his head, and his wife grinned. “We’ve the best of news for our Emeline.” She placed a hand upon her daughter’s.
Em’s stomach leapt. “Me?”
“Indeed. You are to be married by autumn, just as your sister was last year,” declared Mrs. Winthrop, her pride palpable. “Your father has accepted the proposal of one of our finest and most reputable neighbors.”
Across the table, Pru smiled
knowingly from ear-to-ear, leaving Em flabbergasted. No wonder her sister had seemed so confident in her marriage prospects earlier that day!
When no one added anything else, only watching Emeline with congratulatory grins, she finally demanded, “Well? And who is it?” Her face was hot with excitement. She prayed it was someone handsome.
Her mother raised the bread knife. “Your betrothed,” she began to saw the loaf, “is none other than Mr. Lawrence Grady.”
Em huffed impatiently. “Very funny, Mama. But who is it, really?”
Her mother’s grin faltered. “I am not jesting, Emeline.”
She may well have hurled a fist into her daughter’s gut. Em felt as though she were slipping fast into an unforgiving sinkhole. The chair beneath her seemed unsteady, and the wooden walls warped around her, closing her in. “You cannot be serious,” said Em.
“Emeline.” Her father said her name warningly. Beside her, Jackey merely gaped between his parents.
Her breaths came short and clipped. “Excuse me.” Abruptly, Em rose. Daisy hurried to pull out her chair. Although it was horrible manners before Mr. Bonworthe and the commander, the young woman abandoned their guests and the remains of her supper at the dinner table, and bolted out the front door.
Stifling back a cry, she dashed across the yard, making a beeline for the barn. The cows were all she could think about. The cows and their wide, understanding eyes.
She pattered into the cool shade, safely immersed in the familiar odors of manure, raw milk, and hay. She removed her cap and fanned her face rapidly, for fear that she might collapse. It was nightmarish, all of it—and yet, it was real. Really happening. To her.
She shoved a fist into her mouth to smother her sobs. But how could her parents do such a thing? After what she’d witnessed that morning, there was no way she could marry Mr. Grady. Ever. Even if she didn’t know the awful truth about the way he treated his slaves, the man was three times her age, and a widower to boot! Why would they give her someone cruel and used up, who’d likely abuse her the way he abused his negroes and his first wife?
