The Third Mrs. Galway

by Deirdre Sinnott

  A knock rattled the door. Helen turned away from the window. A weakness came over her and she paused by the bed, one hand on the carved maple post, her fingers gripping the contours of the turned wooden spiral. She noticed a wisp of pain in her abdomen and wondered if her breakfast of eggs and toast had not settled properly.

  “Missus?” said Maggie, through the door. “Mr. Augustin wants to see you.”

  Helen opened the door and met Maggie’s eyes. They both looked as if they wanted to speak, but the cook raised her index finger to her lips. “I gotta get us some supper,” she said in a normal voice. “Maybe go pick up a big fat trout from Horace and make Mr. Augustin his favorite.”

  “Do you know why he summoned me?” whispered Helen.

  “I don’t know what’s what with that man no more.” Maggie lowered her voice. “That darn doctor proof a that.”

  Helen smiled. If Maggie could still joke, then she herself would stand straight and face whatever trouble awaited her. She took the cook’s hand and together they walked down the stairs. At the library, Maggie gave a nod and left by the side door. Helen felt very heavy, but squared herself and entered the library.

  The doctor lounged on the sofa, a pipe in his hand. Smoke hung in the air. Didn’t decent men restrict this sort of activity to right after a good dinner, and only when there was company?

  Her husband sat in the winged armchair, his leg elevated on the stool. His eyes were unfocused and sweat beaded on his temples. It had been more than ten days since the slave catchers had searched the house and Augustin seemed worse, not better.

  “Are you ill?” said Helen, alarmed. She approached the sofa. “What is the meaning of this, Doctor?” She withdrew her handkerchief and dabbed at the perspiration.

  “I’m fine,” Augustin said, waving her away.

  “It’ll pass,” said McCooke lazily. He leaned forward and retrieved a half-full glass from the table. “Perhaps he’s just in need of a little more feminine kindness.”

  “I can speak for myself,” snarled Augustin. He turned to her, softening and taking her hand. “Helen, the doctor tells me that you’ve been locked in your room for days. Are you all right, my dear?”

  Helen’s free hand traveled to her lower belly and surreptitiously she pressed at the stitch of discomfort that had lingered there. “I wish that you wouldn’t discuss me with him.”

  Augustin narrowed his eyes. “We are—that is, I am—concerned about your welfare. It’s not right that a lady be confined in her room—unless she is ill.”

  The corner of her lip rose in a smirk. What did Augustin know about what a lady needed? He appeared to her to be among the people who believed that ladies possessed only grace and beauty. She thought that once she finished with her duties, she should be free to choose what to do with her time. “I am not ailing. There’s no need for the doctor to be involved in my affairs.”

  “I don’t appreciate your sudden willfulness, my dear. It is unbecoming. Since you say that you are not convalescing, you should take the air. It would be better for the baby.”

  Helen stepped back, about to reply, when her knees weakened. A dark spot clouded her vision. Stabbing pains erupted in her lower abdomen and she found herself on the floor.

  She tried to sit up, but groaned as another sharp pain pushed her back on one elbow. Her skirts were in disarray. She reached to cover herself and saw a bright-red stain of fresh blood. The doctor was quickly upon her.

  “Don’t you touch me.” She tried to push him away.

  “You’re bleeding. You must let me see,” McCooke demanded as he tried to lift her skirt.

  She kneed him in the jaw.

  “Stop fighting,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Allow me to just see what the devil is—”

  The cramp worsened. She curled herself into a tight ball.

  “Helen,” said Augustin, “let the doctor help.”

  “No!” she screamed, hoping that Maggie was still close.

  “This is clearly a womb problem,” McCooke said, again pulling at her skirts.

  She slapped his face.

  “She’s hysterical,” the doctor said, holding his cheek, his voice high and furious. He struck her face with his open hand.

  “For God’s sake!” cried Augustin.

  Helen’s head swung away from McCooke. Just as a curtain of black descended over her eyes, she heard him say, “Sir, she must be fully examined.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  HORACE SAW THE TWO slavers marching toward him. Hickox bringing his partner along meant more trouble. Since the night at the Galway house, he had been getting almost daily visits from the elder slave catcher. Everyone knew it. No black person had bought a fish from him in days, lest they too come to Hickox’s notice. This reduction in business was testing him. Somehow, he had lost the two doubloons on the night they hid the runaways. His dream of setting up a shop crumbled to dust. He dare not go to the Galway house, for he did not want to know where the runaways were now hidden. Truth be told, he was angry at Maggie. She should never have involved herself in this business and, by extension, implicated him.

  “Boy,” said Hickox as he approached the cart, “you’re holding a secret. And I suspect it’s burning your fishy fingers by now.”

  “Mr. Hickox, sir, I swear I got no idea what you on about.”

  “You know something, I’ve been the very soul of patience. Have I harmed you?”

  “No sir.”

  “No sir, I have not.” Hickox eyed him. “I like you. You’re a man of business. It’s rare to see one of your kind putting in the effort. Building something.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Horace, his eye warily traveling from one man to the other.

  “But you see, I have to put all of that aside.” Hickox paused, his finger tapping on his temple, as if thinking of the best course of action. He stepped closer to the fishmonger. “Now, I could order Mr. Swift to flay you right here. In times of extreme need, he has done it. And enjoyed it.”

  Swift moved his hand to his whip and nodded to Horace, who took a few steps back. Several passersby lingered, waiting to see what might happen.

  “You’re lucky, because we both know that this is not Mr. Swift’s natural homeland. Ah, the sweet South, where the African knows his place. No one would blink at the sight of a white man making sure that it stays that way. Why, they would slap him on the back in the most honest fraternity.”

  Horace felt sweat on his upper lip and ran his coat sleeve across his mouth. “Now, Mr. Hickox, sir,” he said, his hands up, palms facing the slave catcher, “I’m doing my best. I ain’t lying to you.”

  “As I see it, you owe me two doubloons.”

  “Pardon me, sir. Somebody got them coins that night. My pants was off when he,” pointing to Swift, “was in the room and—”

  “You calling me a thief?”

  “No sir, I ain’t. Just supposing you mighta seen is all.”

  “Perhaps it was that cook you’re so fond of.” Hickox looked to the sky. “While you were in a passionate embrace, if relations between two of your kind could be called anything but animal lust. Perhaps the lady took what she believed was her due for fornicating with a beast like you.”

  Horace’s ears turned red as he swallowed back a flame of rage.

  “So as I see it, we shall be taking all your fish. Mr. Swift?” One by one, Swift dropped each flopping fish to the walkway and dug his boot into their soft flesh while they tried to swim away. The pressure of his heel split their bellies, spilling their viscera onto the chilly ground. “This is only a small part of what you owe. Trust me when I tell you that we shall get the rest.”

  “I wish,” Swift said as he crushed a beautiful rainbow trout under his foot, “that this was you.” It took several minutes to kill the entire stock. The walkway was slippery with skin, flesh, bone, and blood.

  Horace dropped to his haunches amid the ruin, his arms covering his face. The slavers departed, cutting through the few onlookers.

/>   Finally, Horace began scraping up the mess, knowing full well that nobody would buy fish from a cart that was surrounded by putrefaction. A few people tried to speak to him, but he heard nothing. He scooped some remains into his bucket and plodded one block to the edge of the Mohawk River and consigned the flesh back to its source. He sloshed the bucket in the current until it was clean and filled it with water. When he returned, he washed the smaller bits of fish into the street.

  As he came back from his second trip, he found Maggie, fists at her hips, shopping basket on a clean spot of ground, staring at the mess. One eyebrow shot up as she focused on him.

  “You gone crazy?” she asked.

  He squinted at her and said nothing. They both watched as he splashed water on the sidewalk, sending a swirl of muck sloshing into the street.

  “Who done this?” demanded Maggie, her voice rising in anger.

  “You know who.” He kneeled and took a battered catfish in his hands. Its whiskers stood out, still whole, while its body hung in tatters. “Just swimming this morning. You didn’t even get to feed nobody.”

  “Why’d he done it to you?”

  “Next time it’s me they grind into the dirt.” Horace dumped the fish into the bucket. “You watch and see.”

  “But he ain’t cornered me,” she said.

  “You’s Mr. Galway’s girl,” he spat.

  She kept her lips tightly pursed as she studied him. He would not meet her eye, but instead kept filling the bucket and shaking his head. She sighed. “You want help?”

  “You can’t do nothing,” he said, and resumed loading the bucket.

  “Here.” She removed a sandwich wrapped in a white kerchief from her pocket. “You ain’t been by, so I brung you this.” She held it toward him.

  He looked up, eyes red. “Thank you.” He rose and moved away from her, shoving the sandwich into his jacket pocket. Maggie lingered a few moments, watching him. Finally, she shook her head, picked up her groceries, and proceeded east along Main Street toward her last stop of the morning, the Sylvanus Bakery.

  Alvan Stewart sat at his desk. Morning light streamed through his window, brightening the room. Though his office was neat, with well-ordered law books on level shelves and a stack of to-be-submitted briefs in a handsome wooden box, a litter of papers surrounded his feet. Each sheet had ink on it: writing, strike-outs, scribbles of half-arranged thoughts, and unpromising beginnings. He dropped a new leaf to add to its fellows. If the Colonization Society already hated him, how could he win over any wavering members when he spoke at their meeting tonight?

  His attention was drawn to the partially charred scarecrow with a tall top hat and roughed-up tailcoat that hung high in the corner of his office. A sign was attached to the noose around the form’s neck. It read, Alvan Stewart, Traitor. He kept the effigy in order to remember that mistaken men, once passionately emboldened, were hard to stop and impossible to control.

  His own safety didn’t trouble him. Instead he worried about his new assistant, Pryce. After yesterday’s hours of organizing for the upcoming convention, he had suggested that the young man sit in the lobby of the National Hotel and monitor the comings and goings of Hickox and Swift. The two slave catchers had lingered in the city and now the convention was fast apporaching. Knowing what they were doing seemed important, but Pryce had not returned to Stewart’s home and was uncharacteristically late. He prayed that the lad had not drawn attention and been attacked. He stood, deciding to make a circuit of the town and look for him, when the street door opened.

  Pryce came slowly up the stairs and met him on the landing.

  “Where the devil have you been?” asked Stewart.

  “Watching the slavers.”

  “All night?”

  Pryce drifted into the office and removed his coat, brushing off a few pine needles and bits of dry leaves before hanging it on a crowded rack.

  “Mr. Swift didn’t stay in the hotel. Around midnight, he went out alone. I followed him.”

  “I told you, just sit in the lobby,” said the lawyer.

  Pryce shrugged. “He secreted himself outside Galway’s home. At sunrise, he retreated back to the hotel.”

  “Our ruse was not believed,” said Stewart, crossing his arms. “Never follow him again.”

  Pryce had not only been watching Swift. He’d been sitting under the evergreen below the window he believed to be Helen’s. It was the first time he’d been near the house since he and Stewart had helped hide the runaways. It didn’t matter if she had no idea of his presence, because he filled the time with dreams about saving her from Swift, or some other danger. Whatever the imagined scenario, he vanquished the foe and she ran to him filled with gratitude and surrender. Now he looked at Stewart. “Do you think I ought to tell Mr. Galway about Swift?”

  “I’ve another idea.” Stewart brought out a stack of letters from his desk drawer. “We have to figure out where all these out-of-town gentlemen will be staying once they arrive for the convention.” He slapped the correspondence down on a spare writing table. “Note each person’s itinerary. Make reservations. And prepare a list so that we can dispatch each to their rooms.”

  “All of them?”

  Stewart nodded and sat back at his desk.

  Pryce slumped in the chair and thumbed through the stack. He picked up a letter and began to read. After a moment, he dropped it back on the table. “I really think Mr. Galway ought to know that his house is being watched.”

  “The question is,” said Stewart, “does that expose his cook to any danger? If the runaways are still there, will this information spur Galway to some detrimental action?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Pryce.

  “No, clearly you had not.”

  The young man lifted a different piece of mail and stared at it, but the words wouldn’t come together into sentences. “Maybe he already knows about the slaves.”

  “He’s unlikely to be part of the conspiracy,” said the lawyer. “Colonization men don’t do that sort of thing.”

  Disappointed, Pryce turned his chair to get more of the sunlight onto the letter, ruffling it and trying to focus his mind. “Maybe I should go over there and offer my help to that cook.”

  “Do you want to put them all in danger?” asked Stewart gruffly. “Besides, the Negroes have been helping each other escape from slavery since the barbaric practice began. I doubt she needs your help.” He picked up his quill and dipped it into the inkstand. His hand hovered over a clean sheet and there it froze. After a few moments, he slid the feather back into the ink in frustration. “I wonder if Galway is privy to any plan to disrupt the convention. He’s an important member of the Colonization Society. Maybe he’s well enough to go to tonight’s meet ing.” Stewart looked at Pryce, whose eyes were sparkling and at full attention. “Perhaps we should pay him a visit—to check on his health.”

  Pryce was on his feet and already at the coatrack.

  Sylvanus knew about patience. It took time to nurture the gooey, yeasty starters that worked their will on the flour, sugar, salt, and water he fed them. Quiet time was not wasted time. Often, he found himself rewarded for simply sitting with his chin in his hand waiting for the next step to introduce itself. On this day, he let his thoughts drift to the question that often captivated him—the difference between the mortal being and the soul. During everyday work, while measuring and mixing the ingredients of his dough, or cutting wood to heat the great domed oven, his soul flew above while his back and arms carried on. But during his deliveries of the finished loaves, the soul inhabited his body once again as he bargained and laughed and occasionally argued with his customers. During the night, when the body was at rest, his soul might play the most amusing tricks on him, making him believe some outrageous circumstance had befallen him. And his legs sometimes kicked off the blankets, leaving him shivering on the cot. But it was still difficult to imagine how the two might be separated. Having no immediate answer to these heavy questions never t
roubled him. Instead, he simply waited for the Creator to toss in a pinch of understanding to salt his thoughts.

  With his morning deliveries complete, this was his position, chin in hand, when Maggie came through the front door, setting off the tinkle of the bell. Sylvanus smiled, eyes bright.

  “Hast thou the need for my sort of bread? Thou seemest like a person who only serves her own.”

  Maggie looked around the shop, eyes lingering over the loaves stacked on the counter. “Well, that’s mighty fine-looking bread there,” she said. “Maybe I should just give up on my own.” After surveying the store, she pointed to the back.

  Sylvanus stood. “Thou and I are the only ones about.”

  Maggie put her basket down. “She’s getting close with the baby. I suspect it’ll be any day now. And I got that nosy doctor trying to find out whatever he can. A crying baby’s gonna be hard to hide.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I ain’t gonna let nobody else near her till the baby come.”

  “Thou art wise. If thou wilt shelter her for another week or two, ’twill be much better for her and the babe.”

  “Week or two? If that baby got the colic … I don’t know.”

  “I know a man outside Oriskany. A good Quaker with his good wife. They live alone. Thou mayest trust him with thy charges. I shall write about our need.”

  The door swung open, causing the bell to tinkle. Both Maggie and Sylvanus stiffened.

  “Morning, Sister Myrick,” said the baker. “How be the good reverend?”

  Maggie turned for the door, eyes down, giving Mrs. Myrick plenty of room to pass. As the cook retrieved her basket, Sylvanus called to her: “Don’t forget thy loaf.”

  Maggie turned back and grabbed the bread. “I thank you. What’s Mr. Galway gonna say if I come back with no bread? He’s gonna say I’m getting on, that’s what he’s gonna say.”