The Third Mrs. Galway

by Deirdre Sinnott

  “We from Frankfort, just down the road,” said Imari, holding up the palms of her hands. “Yes, yes.”

  Helen pressed her lips together, thinking that it might be the truth. Just then, she noticed that Joe’s eyes dropped from her face and focused intently on the dirt floor. He seemed stiff, but a tiny tremor shook the fingers of his right hand. Had that been there before?

  “There’s two slave catchers in town,” said Helen, shifting her attention back to the pregnant woman.

  “Ain’t got nothing to do with us,” said Imari, her gaze unwavering.

  Helen thought she saw Joe’s focus shift, just slightly, to his mother’s foot. She concentrated on him. “They were in my home this afternoon.” She heard Joe open his mouth. His breaths came faster. Though he remained still, he seemed ready to spring to his feet.

  “Joe,” Imari said sharply, “go get some water outta that well.”

  The boy was immediately upright. Helen flinched, in spite of herself.

  “Wait.” Imari turned her head to the frightened woman. “That be, if a little water for two tired and thirsty souls be all right by you.” She paused for a moment. “Don’t the Bible say to open your door to travelers?”

  Helen drew back, blinking, remembering a line from Samuel. For they are hungry, and weary, and thirsty, in the wilderness. She realized with shock that, no matter where they came from, and even if they were Negroes, she could at least have brought them some food. That was the right thing to do. Whoever they were, they had to go, but Christian charity demanded at least food, a blanket, and a place to sleep for the night.

  “One night,” Helen said. “I’ll be right back with some food.” She shrank back to the door and was gone, leaving Imari and Joe alone.

  “You go on and get that water,” said Imari.

  “Should we tell her?”

  “No.”

  “But what if that was Mr. Hickox?” said Joe. “We gotta go.”

  “If it was, he ain’t been back at the house. That mean maybe he weren’t allowed. I ain’t told you this ’cause I don’t know if it gonna happen, but we need to be here so your daddy can catch up.”

  Joe looked at her, his mouth crooked. It was the exact look Elymas gave her when he doubted her.

  “Remember, I said that if I get caught, you gotta run and don’t worry about me? Get yourself to Canada?”

  Joe nodded.

  “Your daddy and I said the same thing about here. So I know he’s gonna come find us.”

  Joe did not look convinced.

  She grew thoughtful. “When it come to telling this lady about us, remember this: sometimes what you know is all you got. Can’t nobody can take it from you. And you ain’t gotta be giving it away. This white lady, she skittish. She ain’t like some a them others we met. She could be nice and bring us food tonight and go to Hickox tomorrow just to get us outta her hair. We gonna be extra careful with her. But this secret we got? It be dangerous, so we gotta play it right. We yes, yes, yes her until we can’t.”

  “Why didn’t we just go to that store? Like the man said?”

  “When’d you get so full a questions?” Imari replied bitterly. “Get that water like I told you.”

  Joe passed Helen in the yard. She gave him a jug.

  “Now be quiet,” she said. “You know how to be quiet?”

  “Yes ma’am,” he whispered. “Yes.”

  Helen reentered the shed with a full plate of food and a quilt under her arm. She set her handkerchief on the ground, as if they were out for a midnight picnic.

  She handed Imari the quilt, thinking she might never see it again. It was a whole cloth quilt made from the same gray fabric as the girls’ school uniforms, one that she and the other pupils had worked on after Augustin had come calling. Each section of the needlework was done by a different hand. Helen could still see the areas each girl had stitched. Even Miss Manahan had sewn a section. Augustin found it ugly.

  “What a fine quilt,” Imari said, examining the workmanship. “We gonna take good care of it.”

  The shed door opened. Helen scrambled to her feet as though fully expecting the slave catchers to come striding inside. Instead, Joe entered with the water jug filled, his front wet. He gave it to his mother, who lifted it to her mouth and drank deeply.

  “You must have some of the food or your strength will not be restored,” said Helen.

  Joe reached in, but quick as lightning, Imari slapped his hand.

  “When has you ever grabbed without thanking our Lord?” Imari whispered. Joe clucked his tongue. “You thank the lady and you thank God.”

  “Thank you, lady,” he mumbled. “Thank you, God.” This time as his hand shot toward the food, there was no slap.

  “I thank you too, missus.” Imari took a biscuit.

  “So, you’re from Frankfort?” asked Helen, watching Imari.

  “Passed through there.” The woman nibbled on the biscuit, then picked up a piece of fish, smelled it, and returned it to the plate.

  “Where are you heading?” asked Helen, trying to sound light, but turning her focus to Joe. He ate with deep concentration, never meeting her eye.

  “Albany, ma’am,” said Imari.

  “Really.” Helen paused for effect. “Then why did you choose to walk west from Frankfort?”

  “No, not Albany,” said Imari quickly. “That other town?” She looked to Joe, who seemed to act like he hadn’t heard her. “The one that sound like Albany, but ain’t. Oh my. I got myself confused.”

  “You mean Auburn,” said Helen, instantly regretting her propensity to help.

  “That the one,” said Imari. “My husband got himself some work there, Auburn.”

  “So your husband is letting you walk all the way when the baby is so close?”

  Joe dropped the remains of his food onto the plate. “Why we still talking?” he asked, a little too loudly. “Ain’t it time to rest up for tomorrow?” He threw himself to the dirt floor and lay on his side, his head on his hands and his knees bent. He tugged on the quilt and Imari leaned forward so he could pull part of it over himself. He pushed his eyes closed, but his lids fluttered like leaves in a stiff wind.

  Imari patted the quilt. “He a brave little man, like his daddy. During the storm, we pray for sanctuary—you give us that. When we be hungry, we pray for food and you fed us. We don’t want you to get in no trouble.” She stopped talking and raised her gaze to meet Helen’s. “So, you take your quilt.” She pulled it back, uncovering Joe’s curled body. He tugged his legs to his chest. “And we be gone tomorrow.” She pushed the quilt toward Helen, her arms outstretched.

  “No,” cried Helen. “Leave him covered.”

  Imari did not move. “I promise you, missus. We getting outta here. But I don’t know what this baby gonna do. God be watching. And He a harsh judge.”

  A groan escaped Helen’s lips. Almost to herself, she pleaded, “I don’t know what to do.” She looked back and forth between the two, emotions playing across her face. Finally, she pushed the quilt back to Imari. “Keep it. I’ll bring you breakfast,” she said, rising. “But then you must find a way to move on.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. You doing the right thing.” Imari eased herself to the dirt floor and lay next to Joe, spreading the quilt over her and her boy. She rubbed her stomach, murmuring the little lullaby. Joe joined her humming the melody, his eyes closed tight.

  Helen sighed and left, closing the door. A sharp clear sky confronted her. She looked to heaven. God, she thought, was that right? Am I doing as You wish?

  The Milky Way, usually such a dependable sight, as puffy as a strip of clouds across the top of the sky, was outshone by the glare of the moon. Everything was still. Only Helen and the eternal stars were really awake. The moon was almost too bright to stare at, but just as she turned to leave the yard, she remembered the comet. Augustin had said that it would be in Ursa Major.

  She moved her eyes toward the west. There was the Big Dipper, the first section of a
constellation that her father had identified for her. He was always teaching her something, about the stars, or how to make a fire hot enough to melt iron—or right from wrong.

  She remembered how she had been sent to fetch him from the blacksmith shop one cold night in December. She took a seat on a tall section of tree trunk that had been bolted into the floor. Normally it served as a workplace, but she liked to pretend that the tree had grown there to provide her a spot to watch her father at his business. As he stoked the bellows, the fire in the brick hearth blazed. It warmed her face and set the snow dripping from her boots. Later, as she rode home on his wide shoulders, he had pointed to the sky and traced out the handle and cup of the Big Dipper. He drew the line from the cup’s outer lip up to the North Star.

  Now she stood in Augustin’s yard and saw the comet, its tail shooting out of the top of the Dipper. And though it was silent and unmoving, the sight of it sped her heart. In all the wide sky, how could such a thing be exactly where Augustin had said it would be?

  She thought again of her father. The morning after her mother and brother had been put into the ground, Helen found him hanging from a low beam in the kitchen of their cabin, his toes almost scraping the floorboards. She grabbed his legs and tried to lift him so she could relieve the horrible crease in his neck, but she was not strong enough. She ran and pulled her uncle from the shop. He had to cut her father down. Once he was on the floor, Helen grabbed his hand, but it was already cold. And now, here was the tail of the comet, shooting out of the Dipper like steam rising from a red-hot iron bar plunged into the water of a cooling barrel.

  * * *

  After Helen left the shed, Joe stopped humming. “We going, or ain’t we?”

  “You seen how I talked to her?” Imari asked.

  “I seen you got caught in a lie.”

  “Not that,” she said, annoyed. “She gotta be told what to do. But I can’t do that direct. It gotta be her idea. So I push and plead. That’s how you talk to white folks. Make them feel like they’s in charge.”

  “So, we ain’t going.”

  “I got what we needed, a place to sleep. You remember that.” She patted his shoulder. “Sleep tonight as good as you can.” As she rolled onto her side, her mind began to wander over the day. Hickox had already been on the property and here they were, two plums ripe for picking. Not only that, this childish white lady had caught them within a few minutes of their arrival. Guilt had worked to get food and a dirt floor for the night, but clearly the woman wasn’t committed to helping runaways. Imari thought for the hundredth time that she had been foolish to not have gone to the place arranged for them. Walking away from that candle stub in the window might have been the mistake that finally ended this journey. And it would be all her fault. Too nervy. Too rash. Too confident. She always told herself that Elymas’s natural caution was a drag on their progress. She wanted to get going. To get to freedom. But the slave catcher was a dreadful shadow. Hadn’t he already had his hands on Elymas? The uncertainty of his fate played on her mind. She kept up what seemed like a crazy hope that her husband had wriggled free from Hickox and that somehow he would catch up. They had an agreement. If they got separated, go to Utica and find the Galway house. It was a last resort. Every moment of every day she questioned her decision to run when she saw Elymas struggling with Hickox. If it had been just her—if she hadn’t had Joe with her and wasn’t trying to protect the baby—she’d have fought the elder slave catcher. Ripped him to pieces—if she could. Elymas’s last word to her was “Run.” Anger flared in her belly. What right did he have to sacrifice himself? He should be here now. That had been the plan. Again, she pictured him with Hickox bearing down. She might never know his fate. Deliberately shoving aside the vision of him so helpless, she told herself that he could have gotten away. We waiting right here for him to catch up, she decided.

  * * *

  Back inside, Helen tiptoed past the library where Augustin slept. His accident would be keeping him away from her bedchamber. During their honeymoon month in New York, his moods were so varied that she had not been able to predict his intentions when the inevitable rapping came at her door. Sometimes he arrived elated and in a ravenous mood. Those nights she had to be ready to accommodate his lust. One evening, he was melancholy and lay on his side upon the bedcovers with a pillow hugged to his chest. He grabbed her hand and drew her arm around his body, so that Helen had no choice but to press herself into his back until sleep slackened his grip. Once, he paced the floor and described a complicated stock gambit that had collapsed and apparently caused him a considerable loss of capital. Helen was not even certain what his business was. She had asked and he had answered, but she could not work out the difference between bonds, coins, specie, notes, and stocks, or how they impacted him, or her. Tonight, to have him confined downstairs promised the relief of uninterrupted sleep.

  Just as she had her hand on the wooden banister to go upstairs, she heard a moan from the library. A second cry of Augustin’s pain reached her ears. She knocked softly and entered. The smell of pipe tobacco and liniment hung in the air. A lamp on the side table burned low.

  “Maggie?” asked Augustin.

  “It’s your wife,” answered Helen.

  “Emma?”

  She exhaled. “No. Helen.” Now that they were no longer traveling, she felt Mrs. Galway around every corner of his house. Where am I in his heart? she wondered.

  “Forgive me, my dear,” said Augustin, coming around. “I was dreaming.”

  “I’ll let you sleep.” She turned to go.

  “No,” he said sharply. Then a little softer, “Please, sit with me for a while.”

  He looked pale and damp as he lay on the daybed. White sheets enveloped him. A tan wool blanket lay in a disordered heap on the floor. Helen picked it up and spread it over him. When the cover pressed against his broken leg, he winced.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said.

  “It’s no matter.”

  She put her palm on his forehead, as she had with the younger girls at school. He was warm, but not feverish. He clutched a lacy handkerchief and she plucked it out of his hand. The corner had the monogram E. G. embroidered on it. Annoyed, she dabbed at his forehead with it.

  “That damnable doctor should be the one to do this,” he said. “He is, no doubt, sleeping peacefully upstairs while my pain solution has worn off.”

  “Shall I fetch him?”

  “No. Let him alone. He availed himself of my wine,” said Augustin as he fussed with the blanket. “Too much of it, clearly.” He was thoughtful for a moment, his attention finally settling on the tea table. “See that medicine vial over there?”

  On the table sat some liquor bottles as well as the doctor’s stethoscope, tinctures, and medical instruments. “You see the brown one that says Opium?”

  “Maybe I should call the doctor.”

  “No need to rouse him. I know the dose,” he said. “Put some brandy—the French label at the center of the tray—into a glass there and add twenty-five drops. See the pipette, use that.”

  Helen pursed her lips, but obeyed. Using the thin glass tube, she counted out the opium drops with care.

  Augustin lifted his head and drank the brandy down in a gulp. He sighed, resting back on the pillow, and closed his eyes. Helen pulled the ottoman to the side of the daybed and sat. She took the glass from him and turned it in her hand, focusing on the remaining drops of brandy as they slid around the bottom.

  Augustin appeared to sleep. The medication must have already relieved him. She stood and put the ottoman back near his smoking chair. A crumpled piece of paper on the table drew her attention. She brought it toward the lamp and ironed out the sheet with her palm. She read Hickox’s notice several times, her heart sinking. So Imari, or really “Suzy,” had lied. They were runaway slaves. It also said that she was dangerous. And of course her husband wasn’t working in Auburn. He had run with her … and been captured. She clenched her j
aw, furious at how she had been lied to, angry enough to confront the woman.

  Her husband began to cough, his eyes flipping open like startled birds. She hid the slave notice behind her back and kneeled at his bedside.

  “Can I help?” she asked.

  His cough subsided. “Stay with me,” he said, clearing his throat.

  “I have something to tell you.” Preparing to confess the presence of the slaves, Helen remembered how Imari had said that God was watching. She had to be sure of her husband’s opinions before she revealed her secret—at least for tonight. “Rather, I want to ask you something.”

  “Anything you want, my dear,” he slurred, smiling blearily.

  “I understand that you’re in an organization that discusses what to do with the Negroes and the slaves.”

  “We do a lot more than talk, a lot more.”

  “But you care about what happens to them?”

  “We’re building a place for them in Africa.” He jabbed his finger in the air. “It’s a place to send the free Negroes, much better than they will ever find here—much, much better. It will end slavery.” His eyelids fluttered. “Like we did here in New York.”

  “And they’ll all live in Africa? There are no masters?”

  “They’ll all be free men.” He focused on her. “Why is this on your mind?”

  He and his organization might be able to help the two, but she had to be sure. Augustin looked on the verge of sleep. “Those men who visited you today,” she began, “the slave catchers, they don’t bring people to Africa, do they?”

  “You are confusing runaways with freed men. Hickox and Swift are chasing bad slaves, criminals, who’ve left their homes.”

  “Oh. So … who goes to Africa?”

  “Are you wondering about that fishmonger, Horace? A man like Horace would do well in Liberia. He’s smart. Ready. Once this leg is mended, I’ll speak to him. You watch. But don’t worry any more about it. You should be thinking about our children, a healthy boy or two whenever they may come …” He trailed off.

  “Would you send Maggie to Africa?”