This wench. Earlier he’d praised me. He’d heard my name, too. But now I was no more than another piece of valuable property.
“We were discussing a general emancipation, Troup,” Colonel Burr said easily, “and not the condition of my private household. But manumission will be the most palatable solution to the most people. A choice is always preferred to legal force.”
“Perhaps,” Mistress said, for she’d never been afraid to venture into gentlemen’s conversations. “But what of that old woman that your brother Tapping helped Sedgewick represent? I recall she herself sued for her freedom based simply upon the state’s constitution, and won. Tidy work, that.”
“Yes, yes, Brom and Bett versus Ashley. A legal exercise, Theo, no more,” Colonel Burr said, all mild weariness as he waved for more wine. “You know how Tapping likes a challenge, and Theodore Sedgewick is an out-and-out abolitionist who needed every bit of Tapping’s assistance to win his point. Nor was the suit as cut-and-dried as Sedgewick now makes it out to be. After the ruling, the Negress named in the suit was asked by her owner to return to her old place to labor for wages.”
“Your sister told me she refused,” Mistress said. “Sally said she took to calling herself Elizabeth Freeman, and went her own way, and no one knew what to make of her after that.”
“Then there you are,” Colonel Burr said, as if Mistress’s small-minded comment had proved anything. “But yes, old Bett did sue—or rather, Reeve and Sedgewick did on her behalf—and the court awarded her freedom to her.”
From the deepest misery, my spirits now rose to incredible heights. I lived beneath a lawyer’s roof. How had I never heard of this decision before? That the Colonel’s own brother-in-law had been party to such a momentous decision? I longed to know more of the woman who’d called herself Elizabeth Freeman—Free-man!—and learn more of her struggles, more of her daring and courage and how hard she must have fought for her freedom.
Colonel Troup nodded, his full chin quivering with argument.
“‘All men are born free and equal’ is a powerful constitutional provision, Burr,” he said, “and drawn as it was from the national Declaration, it could set an equally powerful precedent.”
“It could, but it won’t,” Colonel Hamilton said, his voice rising as if he, too, were in court. “Decisions made by the Massachusetts Supreme Court will not hold so much as a single drop of water anywhere else. Massachusetts means nothing to Virginia, or Carolina, or Georgia.”
“Or New York,” said Colonel Burr. “Perhaps most especially New York. You recall how ineffectual my own attempts were in that arena, and how it has soured me forever on the idle game of politics.”
“You will never give up politics, Burr,” scoffed Colonel Hamilton. “You like the power too well to abandon it.”
Colonel Burr smiled again. “I should like it a great deal better if there were more money in it, sufficient for a gentleman to support himself.”
Irritated for reasons I’d no knowledge of, Colonel Hamilton leaned forward.
“From what I’ve heard, Burr, you did indeed manage to derive a certain profit from the office for peddling influence and favors,” he said. “At least more than most gentlemen would deem agreeable.”
“Tales, Hamilton, idle tales,” Colonel Burr said expansively, refusing to acknowledge whatever insult the other man was hinting at. “To be so wonderfully noble, these whispering gentlemen of yours must not live here in New York, and therefore have no sense of the expense of everything from hay and oats onward.”
“Because New York is the apex of all that is fine and glorious in not only this country, but the entire world,” Mistress declared, raising her chin a fraction higher so she’d be seen over the candlesticks by her husband at the other end of the table. “Fais moi plaisir, Aaron, I beg of you, no more politics or law while we dine. All of us ladies here revere Justice as much as, or more so, you gentlemen do, but might we please give her peace this one night, and turn to other topics?”
Colonel Burr smiled to her, a genuine smile, and nodded, conceding with a gracious sweep of his hand.
“My only wish is to please you, ma chérie,” he said. “Consider all legal matters banished before the ladies. Here’s a topic that will surely be more agreeable to you: I heard this day that there are plans to rebuild the old theater on Beekman, and in time for a proper season in the spring, too.”
“I thank you, Your Lordship,” Mistress said, teasing him with that title as she often did to make him smile. He did in fact smile, as did the other ladies, and the conversation moved on to actors and plays and other follies, and away from what I wished most desperately to hear.
“What did you make of all that, Mary Emmons?” asked Tom excitedly when we were both again in the kitchen, and out of the hearing of the Burrs and their guests. “Could we go to court and make ourselves free, too, just like they said that old woman in Massachusetts did?”
“I do not know, Tom,” I said with care, not wishing to encourage him falsely. “Lawyers like the Colonel earn their fees by twisting words and meanings into knots.”
“But you’ll find the truth,” he said confidently. “You’ll find it, and tell us all.”
He nodded, trusting me more than he should. I’d never set out to be a leader or a pathfinder, but because I could read and write and speak as well as many of the white people I served, I’d had that role pushed upon me against my will, like another’s cloak draped over my shoulders.
It wasn’t only the servants—Carlos, Ginny, Ben, and Celia—who lived in our house, but others in our neighborhood also came to ask me to write letters for them, or read papers, or help them to learn their letters, as Lucas had once helped me. Because of this, and because I was by nature reserved, with a goodly measure of white blood apparent in my color and features, I was credited with more knowledge than I believe I possessed. I’d never yet known a lasting love, or given birth to a child to hold like a treasure in my arms, the things that gave women true wisdom. Yet people will believe what they want, and I did my best to help however I could.
When I told Tom that I would try to learn more about Elizabeth Freeman’s case and where it might lead for the rest of us, I’d every intention of doing so. My conscience wouldn’t let me do otherwise.
I also knew where that hunt would lead me personally, and how very difficult, even hazardous, it could prove to be. But for a chance to seize my freedom, I would do it. I’d do it.
* * *
The following morning, I stood before the closed door of the Colonel’s library. I’d no right to be there, since my orders came only from Mistress. This was the Colonel’s room, his solitary place that not only held his books and papers, but also served as his office and his retreat, here in the back of the house where it was most quiet. The only time I came into this room was to make certain that Celia had swept and cleaned the grate as she should, and even so, I’d taken care never to send her to do so when there was any chance the Colonel would be there, too, to spare her what had happened to me.
Still I hesitated, unable to bring myself to knock. I knew the Colonel was within. Because he wasn’t expected in court today, he hadn’t left for his office yet, though Frederick and Bartow had gone ahead. Earlier Carlos had brought the Colonel his coffee, letters, and newspapers, while Mistress was still abed upstairs. She’d only a matter of weeks left until her time, and often slept later because of it.
Once I entered the Colonel’s library, we’d be together, the two of us and no one else. It had to be like that if I wished to remind him of the old days in Albany and at the Hermitage, when he’d speak to me almost as a friend would. We hadn’t conversed with that ease since he’d moved us to this house.
I took a deep breath, and rapped my knuckles on the frame of the door.
“What in blazes do you want, Carlos?” he called irritably.
Another deep breath. “It’s not Carlos, sir. It’s Mary.”
I heard the squeak of his chair as he rose, and
his footsteps as he came striding across the room to open the door himself, and then there he was.
“Why, Mary Emmons,” he said, clearly surprised. “Is all well? Is my wife—”
“Mistress is still asleep, sir,” I said quickly. “If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you myself.”
He opened the door wider for me to enter, and I slipped inside. Then he closed it after me, the latch clicking into place and signifying to me that I was, by my own choice, now alone with him.
“Here, Mary, sit,” he said, solicitously offering me a chair. He was already dressed in his breeches, shirt, and waistcoat in preparation for the day, but over them he wore a long banyan of quilted blue silk. This was left open, as was his shirt, still unfastened at the throat. Now I was accustomed to seeing both of the Burrs in various undress. Like all body servants, I knew their most personal secrets, from how often they changed their linen, to when Mistress had her courses, to which nights they lay together as husband and wife, but for some reason this morning the glimpse of his bare chest and the dark curling hair upon it unsettled me.
“Thank you, sir, but I’d prefer to stand,” I said as briskly as I could. “What I wish to say shall not take long.”
He smiled. “You intrigue me,” he said, returning to his own chair behind the broad mahogany table that he used here as his desk. I was grateful to have it between us.
“Before you begin,” he continued, “I’d like to tell you again how much I enjoyed your curry dish last night. It was unlike anything else I’ve ever eaten, yet I cannot stop thinking of it.”
“I can do better, sir,” I said promptly. “Mistress desired me to follow the English recipe in the cookery book, but it made for a poor sort of curry, and not what is enjoyed in India.”
He nodded, considering. “You have a recipe that you prefer?”
“I do, sir,” I said, and tapped my chest. “It’s not written or printed in a cookery book, but learned and saved here, within me.”
“What better place to store what’s most dear, yes?” he said. “Would you be willing to prepare it for me?”
For me: not for my guests, or even for my wife and me.
Just for me.
“I do not know if all the spices I’d require might be purchased here in New York, sir,” I said, avoiding his request.
“Oh, Mary, everything is for sale in New York,” he said. “Seek out a grocer near the docks. You have my leave to buy whatever you require, so that you may make me your best, proper, Indian-style curry.”
“Thank you, sir,” I murmured. I was frustrated by how I’d wandered so far from my original purpose, and worse, that he could do that to me. “Forgive me, sir, but I—I’d more to say than that.”
“More, Mary Emmons?” he asked, his manner teasing in a way that only served to frustrate me further.
“Yes, sir.” None of this was easy for me. I was determined to speak as plainly as I could, but if irritation gave an edge to my plain words, then so be it. “Last night you spoke of Elizabeth Freeman, sir. You spoke of how she won her own freedom in a court of law.”
Instantly his expression became serious, and his voice with it.
“Then you also learned from me that the case was heard in the state of Massachusetts,” he said, “where laws and precedents are entirely different than from here in New York.”
I’d expected him to say that, and I was ready with my reply.
“Yes, sir, I did,” I said. “I heard as well that you’d little use for Mr. Sedgewick as an attorney. Surely you are much his superior, sir. Surely your learning and experience would make up for those different laws here in New York.”
He frowned a bit, his dark brows drawing together as he listened, and in a different way than he usually did. This time, it was not my form or face that drew his eye, but my resolve, and it gave me fresh courage.
“I begin to see your purpose,” he said slowly. “You wish me to present a similar suit.”
“I do, sir,” I said bravely. “I would pay you, too, sir. Ever since we were in Albany, I’ve sewn for others, and put what I earned aside toward buying my freedom. This would be the same, sir, and every penny spent well if you will but accept my case.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t take your money.”
“Forgive me, sir, but I’d want you to,” I said, “so everything would be fair between us.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said bluntly. “You could stitch shirts on Sundays for the rest of your life and not begin to equal my fee.”
That stung, but still I wouldn’t give up.
“It’s what I have, sir,” I persisted, my voice rising. “And once I’ve secured my freedom, I’ll earn wages, good wages, on account of all I can do. I can pay you more then, sir, for years and years, if that’s what it shall take.”
“You must have heard only part of what I said last night,” he said in that same direct, almost harsh fashion. “I sat in the state legislature, Mary. The question of abolition is frequently raised, and I can tell you again that this state is not ready to accept it. Two years ago I proposed a provision to a bill under consideration that slavery be entirely abolished within the state. I was soundly denounced for it, and the provision was removed. I can assure you that a suit such as you propose will do nothing to change the collective minds currently in power.”
“But that was two years ago, sir,” I said, beginning to realize how difficult it was to counter his arguments. Carlos had said that this was how he was in court, piling fact upon fact to confound his challengers. “Things have changed.”
“Not sufficiently,” he said, and for the first time I could hear the irritation in his voice, too. “New York—especially this city—is still striving to recover from the war.”
“But you could try, sir,” I said. “If only—”
“Listen to me, Mary,” he said. “I will not trouble you with the figures of losses and other expenditures. All you need do is look about you to see the damages that remain on most every street. What man, whether farmer or merchant, is willing to sacrifice the labor to do all that needs to be done?”
“Then that farmer and merchant should pay fair wages, sir,” I said, desperation making me be dangerously frank, “and not rely on captives like me to do their bidding.”
“Stop,” he warned, rising to his feet and coming around the desk to stand before me. “You go too far. Stop now.”
I was pressing my fingers so tightly into my palms that they hurt. I couldn’t let my voice rise any higher, not and risk others hearing us. Yet my words refused to be held back any longer, else they’d strangle me.
“You’ve told me yourself, sir, that slavery is only a temporary condition in a person’s life,” I said in a fierce, tormented whisper. “Why can’t that condition be changed now, sir? Why must I wait to taste freedom that my husband earned, and that he died for so that I might have it, too?”
“Stop,” he ordered roughly, seizing me by the arm. “Do you believe me mad? That I’d file a baseless suit against my own wife on your behalf?”
I tried to pull my arm free, but he held me fast. In the past when he’d trapped me like this, I’d been frightened of him, but now I was too angry to be afraid, or wise, either.
“My mistress,” I said, practically spitting the words. “You would rather she kept me her prisoner than do what is right before your God and your country!”
“Guard your words, Mary,” he warned. “Consider—”
“No, sir, you consider!” I cried furiously. “Consider what you and Mistress have done to me, to my life, to my—”
But before I could finish he shoved me back flat against the wall, there beside the tall case filled with his books. Without pause, he kissed me, his mouth grinding across mine and his tongue thrusting deep. Pinned against the wall, I twisted between his heated body and the cool, smooth plaster behind me.
He still held my arm, and now shoved my hand down between our bodies. He forced my fingers over the f
ront of his breeches, pressing them against his rampant cock.
“That’s what you do to me, Mary Emmons,” he said, his voice filled with anger that was a match to my own. “I have everything in my life that a Christian man could want, yet still you torment me like some golden, sinful Eve, here in my own house where I cannot keep away from your temptation.”
He pushed himself against my hand. I closed my fingers around him through his breeches, just enough to make him groan aloud, vibrating against my temple.
“Then free me, sir,” I whispered fiercely, my words as rough and breathless as his. “Set me free, and send me away, and I’ll never torment you again.”
He groaned again. “You know I can’t do that.”
“You could, sir.” I turned my face up so my mouth was near his and brushed my lower lip against his cheek, just enough to make him shudder. I was smaller, weaker, bound by law to his wife, but in that moment I realized that I had some measure of power over him. I’d never felt this before, not with any man, and especially not one like the Colonel. “Mistress would heed you.”
“My wife.” He swore, helpless, a sound I discovered gave me great satisfaction.
“Mistress would listen to you if you asked, sir.” My breasts crushed against his chest. “She would obey.”
“As you do not,” he muttered. “I should whip you for your impudence, Mary Emmons.”
At once I tensed, remembering the last whipping I’d received, long ago on Saint-Domingue, and the grooved scars I’d carry forever upon my back. But this was different.
He was different.
And so, I supposed, was I.
I’d been expecting what came next for years, and I thought I was prepared for it. But I wasn’t, and afterward I realized I never would have been. What woman is?
He grabbed the coarse linen of my petticoat in a bunch and shoved it up around my waist. He was past words now, ripping open the buttons on the fall of his breeches to free himself. He pushed my legs apart, bent his knees, and entered me, roughly, with no care or kindness. I cried out, and he pressed his palm over my mouth.
The Secret Wife of Aaron Burr Page 32
