She looked into the light of the new day and fell back onto the bed, pulling a blanket over her face, eventually surrendering and letting sleep overtake her.
During the disruption of the New York Anti-Slavery Society convention, Gerrit Smith, a wealthy man who had previously devoted his time and money to the colonization cause and who came to the event at Reverend Green’s urging, became so angered at the abrogation of the rights of assembly and free speech that he invited the delegates to continue their discussions in his hometown of Peterboro, thirty miles away.
Hundreds of men made the journey in the pouring rain. Carts were hired, horses saddled, canalboats filled, and many, like Pryce Anwell, went on foot in the black of night over rolling hills.
By the time Pryce arrived in the morning, the meeting was about to resume. He sat among hundreds of men, both white and black, in the Peterboro Presbyterian Church. At the lectern on the raised chancel, Alvan Stewart stood with a gavel in his hand ready to begin the proceedings. Stewart raised his arm and it was as if each man held his breath waiting for the pound of the walnut on the slate stopper to start the convention afresh.
The men knew that once the gavel fell, it would be their mission to ready themselves to fight against slavery as if it were their own families they had to save. Stewart swung his arm and struck the slate. Pryce Anwell understood his own path was now set toward justice.
* * *
Twenty-five miles away in Oriskany, in the windowless root cellar of Sylvanus’s Quaker friends, Imari lay unconscious.
Helen helped the Quaker’s wife wash Imari’s battered body, and wept over the dark bruises that circled her neck. The ordeal of childbirth and her capture would have been too much for most, but Helen knew Imari was strong. A trusted doctor held Imari’s wrist, counting the beats of her heart. But to Helen, the poor woman looked thin and bloodless.
“Her pulse has strengthened,” the doctor said. “That is a hopeful sign.”
Elymas lay on the next cot. The doctor removed the shot from his shoulder and sewed up the whip cut on his leg. He had stood the pain bravely, but lost a lot of blood. The doctor insisted that there was good reason to hope.
The Oriskany Quaker, Brother Hughes, told Sylvanus he feared that their arrival, and all the additional people around the farm, might draw the attention of anyone searching for the runaways. “We must be prudent,” he said. “You must leave, or risk exposure.”
Helen reluctantly agreed, but made the farmer promise to write to Sylvanus with any news.
At dawn, she fed baby Margaret fresh cow’s milk and rocked her until the infant slept, only then reluctantly releasing her into Joe’s arms. She felt a connection with the child that pulled at her heart and had to turn away quickly, lest she be unable to go. She said goodbye to Horace and kissed Imari’s forehead. She leaned over the sleeping figure of Elymas and touched his warm arm. With tears streaming down her face, she allowed herself to be led away.
Sylvanus drove the wagon back to Utica. During the silent trip, Helen’s mind was filled with painful fantasies. If only she had been the one shot. Elymas deserved to live with his family in peace and freedom. Why should she, a sheltered girl, have been spared? Even after the wedding and the trip to New York, she had only understood a small slice of life’s truths. She was amazed that so many different people seemed ready to help escaping slaves, no matter what the personal consequences. Perhaps it was just that Sylvanus had many friends among the Quakers. But even the blacksmith, who had arrived in the dark of night, asked no questions as he removed the chains from the two still bodies. There seemed to be a group of people she had never noticed before—those who followed their own principles instead of the law. Her understanding of the arrangement of the world had been turned upside down.
She had assumed somehow that everyone pretty much believed the same things. Good people obeyed the law and bad people did not. Good people were loved by God and bad people were punished. Life could be unduly harsh and sometimes capricious. But how was it part of God’s plan to enslave an entire race of people?
As the cart bumped along the road, Helen felt as if she were covered by layers of earth. What had been going on between Augustin and Maggie seemed beyond comprehension. It was difficult enough trying to picture her husband as a young man. But how had he entangled himself with a black servant? No—not a servant, a slave—his slave. Maggie was not like any slave Miss Manahan had described. Then again, neither was Imari, nor for that matter Elymas. All she saw in them was a family that had risked their lives for freedom. Miss Manahan taught that Negroes were better off as slaves, and Helen had believed that, until she met Imari.
She focused back to the source of her extreme discomfort. She was baffled and disquieted that Augustin had found Maggie attractive. She imagined them moving about in the house. His father in the library. His mother … well, she knew about Maggie’s mother, she’d died by then, but when had Augustin lost his mother? She did not even know. She forced her mind back to her question. How had Augustin come to love a slave? He said in court, for everyone to hear, that he loved her. He had never spoken those words to Helen.
If she could come to look upon Maggie and Imari as people for whom she had run risks and lied, as people she enjoyed talking and listening to, how could she deny that Augustin might have felt the same way?
Did she think of the two women as less than herself? It seemed natural to do so, something accepted, like breathing air. She thought perhaps whites were born with that opinion of themselves.
Helen suddenly realized that Maggie’s relationship with Augustin was much more equal than her own. He loved her. He could not bear to part with her. He had disobeyed his own father and demanded she be brought back home.
It was Maggie’s dark skin that made the affair so difficult for her to accept. In New York City, she had seen Augustin in flirtatious conversations with various ladies. She had burned with jealousy. It wasn’t hard to imagine one of them, in her finery and with her sophistication, winning his heart. At that time, she had not felt superior, but awkward, and childlike. But they were white and Maggie was black. And that changed everything.
If Maggie had been white … well, if she had been white she would not have been a slave. If she and Augustin had committed an indiscretion, they would have married. That would have made Maggie the first Mrs. Galway. In a very real sense, Maggie was the first Mrs. Galway, because she had given him a son. Helen smiled bitterly. Did poor dead Emma Galway ever know? She was certain that the lady did not.
Helen realized that it was time to disregard her many incorrect assumptions and to simply accept the facts. She was jealous of Maggie’s ease with Augustin and knew she herself would never have that ease with him. But most importantly, Helen did not—and never would—love her husband. She loved Pryce, but a relationship with him could not be right in the eyes of God.
The sun was high in the sky as she approached her home, still so unfamiliar and strange to her. The curtains were closed. She looked down at her muddy gray school frock. As she approached the front door, her stomach tightened, and in a moment of weakness she veered off, heading instead around to the back.
She had expected to find Maggie in the kitchen, or at least for the stove to be hot. The small bedroom was open and Helen saw her on the bed, under the blanket, her snores filling the room. The poor woman certainly deserved some rest.
A stack of kindling stood near the stove, so Helen decided to make a fire and cook some food and coffee for everyone. She closed the bedroom door and moved about the kitchen, quietly tidying and putting things to rights. The sight of Maggie’s blood on the floor and table upset her, but she pulled on an apron and erased the evidence. It took a long while for the thick iron to get hot enough to boil water, but Helen saw why Maggie so loved the stove. It was more contained than an open hearth and did away with the risk of catching one’s clothing on fire to fry a few eggs. Helen put some ham aside for Maggie and then loaded a tray with plates, cups, food, and c
offee for Augustin and herself. She thought they would eat together in the library.
It was vital that he listen to her. After all the events of the past few weeks, she didn’t know if their marriage could be saved. With no idea what to say to her husband and a conviction to tell the truth, she picked up the tray and pushed through into the front hall.
She noticed that the parlor door was open and peeked in. The furniture had been rearranged, and toward the front window a large box sat on wooden sawhorses. She stepped to the threshold. The tray slipped from her hands, crashing to the floor. Her knees went weak and she crumpled amid the broken china.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CLOTHED HEAD TO TOE IN BLACK, Helen spent the next few days receiving mourners. While many people may not have known that Augustin Galway had remarried, now that he was dead, she had become the most famous widow in Utica. Not only did members of the Committee of 25 and many of the city’s bankers, politicians, and businessmen come by to show their respect; mothers brought eligible sons; widowers hinted at their need for a young wife; and a few men of less-than-respectable circumstances arrived slick with charm.
Everyone assumed that Mr. Galway, an only child who was himself never blessed with children, must have bequeathed to his widow access not only to the revenue from his investments, but also control over his properties. They believed that Mrs. Galway would not be expected to survive on the normal dower’s share—by law, only the interest on the income from a mere one-third of his land. Mrs. Galway, it was supposed, would have much more money at her disposal. When word spread that the well-known portraitist Anson Dickinson had taken the time to sketch Mr. Galway in the casket, the notion of the widow’s wealth had been cemented.
Helen kept thinking that everything had turned to dust. Her duties as Augustin’s wife had been to produce a child and keep her aging husband happy and heathy. She had failed. If only she had been more forceful when she saw the extent of the dreadful infection on his leg. That it had been gangrenous was perfectly clear now. This must have taken such a toll on his strength that his heart simply could not endure the stress.
And there was still no word from Sylvanus’s friend about the runaways. Uncertainty filled Helen’s hours.
Toward the end of the final day, as the parade of visitors slowed, she retreated to the library, leaving the door ajar so that Maggie could summon her. Despite the cook’s injuries, together they had cleaned up the evidence of Augustin’s illness. They had found a surprising number of empty bottles under the sofa, presumably shoved there by Dr. Mc-Cooke. Maggie had cursed his name when she discovered the cache, but quickly took it back, in respect for the dead. All liquors were removed and the daybed pushed back into the hall closet. And though they aired it out, the library still held the scent of tobacco. At least the room was a quiet retreat and Helen decided to look among the books for something to distract her. She found herself opening William Godwin’s book Enquiry Concerning Political Justice and its Influence on Morals and Happiness. The title seemed to discuss many of the questions that she needed answered. A nearby cough made her jump and she snapped the book closed.
“You might find—”
“Pryce … I mean, Mr. Anwell. You startled me.”
“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to sneak up. It’s just that seeing you there with a book in your hand—I didn’t want to break your concentration.”
“I’m neglecting my duties by being in here.”
“You’ve been so crowded by mourners that I didn’t get the chance to tell you how sorry I am about Mr. Galway,” said Pryce, looking at his shoes. “Terribly sorry.”
“Thank you,” she responded quietly, then turned to replace the volume on the shelf.
“You might find his wife’s book more interesting,” said Pryce. “A Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft.”
“The rights of women?” Helen studied him. “Do you find that subject interesting?”
“Well, it’s flipped more than a few powdered wigs,” he said. “I’ll find a copy for you.”
“Thank you. I suppose I must go back into the parlor—”
“Wait a moment.” He touched her hand.
Her breath caught. Silence overtook them until Helen focused on him, her eyes soft. “You can’t be in here alone with me.” She stepped toward the door.
“I don’t care what people think,” he said, holding on to her. “These last few days have altered me.”
She bowed her head, no longer knowing what to believe. But the trembling young man’s presence ignited a deep earthly longing.
“I don’t just mean … what happened.” He squeezed her hand and stared deeply into her eyes. “I so admire what you did for that poor woman. I mean, I never paid much attention to it—I mean slavery. What did it have to do with me, after all? But that’s blind and cowardly. I could have done so much more.”
“I did very little,” Helen said, fighting down tears.
“You were magnificent. If I get another chance I’ll try to be as brave as you.”
“I only pray that she and her husband are still alive.”
“It’s up to God, not us.” Pryce flipped Helen’s hand over and stared at her palm. “I’m sorry if I’ve compromised you, but I can’t apologize about my feelings.”
She became aware of her heartbeat, so strong it alarmed her. She feared letting herself go unchecked. “What … are those feelings?” she whispered.
“For these last nights, I’ve stared at the sky. I thought of our few hours together. And I realized that I might lose you.” Pryce cleared his throat. “You’re everything to me.” He brought her hand to his cheek. “I love you. I can’t let you go. I said before that I’d be with you no matter what. I want to marry you, make things right.”
There it was, the new life, full, young, and bursting with possibilities.
“I want to,” Helen said. “But I can’t imagine what’s to come. It’s all shadows. Nothing is as I assumed it to be.”
He drew her hand to his mouth and kissed it. She moved closer and once again their lips touched. It felt so right, as if the past with Augustin had loosened its talons, grown wings, and struck out for the blue sky.
Alvan Stewart knocked and entered the room. Helen and Pryce pulled apart.
“Excuse me,” he said, shock showing on his face. “Forgive me. I came in because I have news.”
“About Imari and Elymas?” Helen said.
“I’m afraid not. But it seems,” said Stewart, opening the door wide, “that there is a will.”
Miss Manahan entered in her best black crepe dress, stopping for a moment to study the room, eyes lingering on the wall of books before her gaze focused on Pryce. He exchanged a sly glance with Helen.
“The bear has returned,” he whispered before stepping away.
Miss Manahan raised her hand, revealing a substantial-looking document.
Helen remained still.
“This is the will I negotiated with your husband before the wedding.” Again her eyes fell on Pryce. “It’s private.”
“Mr. Anwell,” said Helen, “would you please call in Maggie.”
“A servant?” asked the lady, one eyebrow elevated and lips pursed.
“She deserves to hear this,” Helen replied.
Pryce left. Helen invited Stewart and the schoolteacher to sit on the sofa. She took the chair in which Augustin had spent his final days. She pressed her back into it and caught the scent of his hair oil. After three deep breaths, she touched a handkerchief to the corner of each eye. Miss Manahan was the past, one to which she would never return. But what place would Helen fill now? She looked around the room. There were hundreds of books just an arm’s reach away, each filled with ideas, discoveries, and experiences. And there was a man who said he loved her, and she most assuredly loved him.
A knock came at the door. Helen called, “Enter,” and suddenly felt more in control of herself and her future than she had since leaving the Female Instit
ute.
Maggie arrived, also dressed in black, with the exception of her crisp white apron. Her injured shoulder and arm hung in front of her, supported by a black sling. Stewart stood and Helen indicated that Maggie should take his place on the couch. Pryce waited in the doorway.
The big lawyer put out his hand and the schoolteacher reluctantly handed him the document. He studied it for a moment. “Maggie, you have been left a substantial sum to do with as you please.”
The cook’s head bent and she quickly dabbed away tears.
“Mrs. Galway, you have been left the stewardship of Mr. Galway’s entire estate.”
“Stewardship? What does that mean?” asked Helen.
“It is yours,” said the lawyer, “since there is no recognized legal heir.” He coughed.
Maggie’s eyes flashed to Helen, who nodded in comprehension.
“Sell it,” said Helen.
“You can’t,” cried Miss Manahan.
“Can’t I?” Helen asked Stewart.
“You can.”
“What will people think?” said Miss Manahan.
“I don’t care,” said Helen. She addressed the lawyer: “Sell the businesses. Keep the house?” She glanced at Maggie, who nodded. “Let me know what you need from me.” She rose from the chair. “Thank you all. I’d like to be alone.”
The schoolteacher stood, huffing. “He’s not even buried yet.”
“Miss Manahan,” said Helen, going to her and taking her hand, “I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me and for your girls. I won’t forget the school and you when all of this is settled.”
The older woman brightened considerably. “You were always one of my favorites.”
Stewart offered the lady his arm, which she graciously accepted and floated out. Maggie, shaking her head, followed the pair.
Pryce lingered. “I hope you don’t think that I asked for your hand for financial gain.”
“You have disturbed my peace since the moment you called to me from that canalboat,” Helen said.
The Third Mrs. Galway Page 34
