“It wasn’t my intention to bring you to sin.”
“Let me finish.” She drifted to the window and looked out onto Bleecker Street. “My life has always seemed small. I wanted to obey God and my elders, follow the rules, and be petted and praised for it.” She chuckled. “But you’ve helped me realize that’s not enough. At first, I was flattered by your attention, thrilled even. Part of me thought you were just an academic boy who knew too much about the stars, but nothing about how difficult life is. You were honest, terribly so. While I squeezed myself into a lie.”
“I can leave if you want,” said Pryce, swallowing hard.
“Leave?” She turned to him. “I love you. I can’t imagine going forward without you. I need you and that makes me a sinner. But I know now that I have to be true to my own self.” She took his hands in hers. “I hope that you still want to help me grow. And that I can help you—always.”
“Does this mean you’ll marry me?”
“Does your offer still stand?”
“Of course it does.”
“Then I say yes,” she laughed. Suddenly, her fear about the future vanished. What was to come was still mysterious, but he was a yellow to complement her blue. With Pryce, she could be honest, equal, part of a true partnership.
He pulled her to him and they wrapped their arms around each other.
“Let it be soon,” said Pryce.
“Yes,” sighed Helen, already feeling at home within his embrace.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
HELEN LOOKED UP from the box she was filling with books destined for Miss Manahan’s Female Institute. Maggie approached holding a package wrapped in paper and tied with twine.
“That artist fellow you hired, Mr. Dickinson, dropped this by,” said Maggie, placing the small rectangular object on the desk. They both looked at it, arms at their sides, as if waiting for the other to make a move.
“I feel like I’ve already forgotten him, just a little,” said Helen. “If I close my eyes I can see his form, but his face is indistinct.”
“I ain’t thinking about him at the end. I never used to let myself remember none a them old days. But now I’m thinking on it. Mr. Augustin and me played all the time when we was kids.” Maggie smiled. “Later things got more … well.” Helen looked away. “Oh, sorry. It ain’t proper to talk about him like that.”
Helen brightened. “I’m done trying to figure out what’s proper.” She came around the desk. “Shall we open it?”
Maggie produced a small knife and sliced through the twine. Helen unfolded the paper. Inside sat a green velvet-covered box. She opened it and there staring up at them was a small wood-framed image of Augustin.
“It’s not him,” said Helen. “His face is too smooth.”
“It’s him,” said Maggie. “Him—without the care on his soul.” They stood still.
“Do you want it?” asked Helen quietly.
“I ain’t putting it in my room, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I have an idea.” Helen carried the painting out into the hallway and held it near Emma Galway’s portrait. “I think it’s the proper thing.”
Maggie went into the kitchen and returned with a hammer and nail. After they decided exactly where to place the painting, she banged in the nail. Both stood back to appraise their work.
“He loved her,” said Maggie. “They’s together up in the cemetery too.”
“It’s only right,” said Helen.
“He wasn’t a bad man, just weak,” said Maggie, dabbing her eyes with a kerchief. “I’m glad he got to make good in the end. And that what happened ain’t no big secret no more.”
Helen put her arm around Maggie’s waist.
The cook shook her head. “I can’t believe that I told him not to marry you.” She touched Helen’s cheek. “So young. I said you was gonna be frivolous. But he didn’t want to listen. He wanted a baby boy so bad. Well, he got one. Too bad he ain’t around to see how it feels.” Maggie studied Helen, then nodded. “Life ain’t no clear path. You gotta be the one who decides things. The preacher says you gotta do this. The law says you gotta do that. Sometimes the heart says something that sounds crazy to the whole world, but you go and do it. No matter how clean they are on the outside, ain’t nobody live perfect.” She paused. “You love him, that boy?”
“Yes,” Helen said. “We’re going to be married. But Augustin,” she turned to the painting, “he’s been gone just two weeks. People will talk. It’s not proper.”
Maggie growled, “Let me tell you what ain’t proper. Not grabbing love and holding tight, no matter what. That ain’t proper—since you ask me.”
Helen took her hands. “Your opinion means so much to me.”
Just then, two shadows appeared at the front door and commenced knocking. Helen held Maggie’s eye for a moment before answering the summons.
Pryce and Sylvanus stood at the threshold.
“Mr. Sylvanus,” said Helen, her voice strangely high, “what brings you?”
“’Tis a letter,” said Sylvanus, holding up a sealed envelope.
“From my people?” asked Maggie anxiously.
“It’s addressed to you both,” said Pryce.
Helen took the letter. Their names were spelled out in a shaky hand. She opened it. “It’s from Imari.” She began to read aloud.
November 4, 1835
Dear Miss Helen and Miss Maggie,
We writing to thank you both for the help you rendered us in our hour of need. We all alive and healing thanks to this here Quaker and his wife, Brother and Sister Hughes.
We so sorry that Mr. Galway got killed. It just about breaks my heart. Horace done told me that he a good man. And Elymas say that he forgive his father because he done the right thing in the end.
Elymas be healing. He wants to help around here, but mostly his right arm don’t want to work. Doctor says he ain’t going to use it much again. I hope that doctor be wrong and healing time be all he need.
Baby Margaret be getting fat and healthy. And Sister H. got Joe busy learning to copy out his letters and numbers. He really want to help his poppa, but Sister say he got to learn.
I be back on my feet, but still very sore. The doctor says I almost lost my voice and ain’t never going to talk normal again. That’s God’s will I guess. I knew Elymas be getting better when he said my scratchy squeaky old voice sound like cooing doves to him.
We be missing Maggie and her cooking and trading stories all night. To be true, we all missing everything about Maggie. Elymas especially want to get to know his true momma. But that devil Hickox ain’t never going to give up on trying to find me. We hear that he be heading back to Virginia, but that ain’t far enough for my comfort.
We staying put for now, but our eyes be looking north. I knew you would all be troubled if you don’t hear from us. Please send our thanks to Mr. Stewart. And to Mr. Sylvanus. And to that young fellow. Joe told me there be a lot more people who did all sorts of things to win us our freedom. We thank them all.
Former obedient servant, now free,
Imari
Post Script: Miss Helen, I just got to add one little bit. What you did for us give me something I ain’t never had too much of and that be hope. All them other people who help us on the way north knew what they be doing. They had their whys all worked out before we got there. But Miss Helen, you done it cause you got a good solid heart. You a precious thing. Life got a way of changing us, but don’t you let it.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
TWO WEEKS LATER, on a warm November day, Pryce and Horace loaded Maggie’s trunk onto the cart outside the Galway house. Her belongings slid next to a carton of her favorite iron fry pans. Sturdy wooden containers held a brand-new set of dishes packed individually in crumpled pages of the Oneida Whig, flatware, tea service, linens, and bolts of pretty cotton cloth. Half a dozen smoked hams and other food supplies and dry goods filled out the bed. Horace placed a small package of his own new clothing next to the tru
nk. He and Pryce threw an oilcloth over the load and tightened the ropes that secured the baggage.
Maggie and Helen sat on the back porch watching them work.
“You got it tied down good?” Maggie called to Horace.
“Yes ma’am,” he said, approaching the two women.
“’Cause if I find nothing but broken china, you gonna hear about it.”
“We got us a long journey ahead,” said Horace, smiling and putting one foot up on the edge of the stair, “so you best spread out your compliments so I don’t go getting too proud.”
Maggie returned his smile and leaned her rocking chair forward to kiss him.
“You’re blushing like a bride,” said Helen.
“I got a right, don’t you think?”
Helen laughed.
Maggie pushed back in her chair. “Give us a minute, will you?”
Horace winked and waved to Pryce. “Let me show you what’s what in that barn.” They moved away.
Maggie grabbed Helen’s hand. “Don’t stay too long here,” she said.
“I won’t. After we get married, I’ll close the house up. There’s nothing for me here. Pryce doesn’t want to go back to Little Falls. Maybe we’ll head west and figure out if my Uncle Bill is still alive.”
“I ain’t got the words to say what I want,” said Maggie. “You just kept on surprising me. I ain’t never gonna underestimate you again.”
Helen squeezed her hand. “You’re a wonder.” She wiped away a tear. “You have to make sure to write me. I want to know everything.”
“How can I write you if you hauling yourselves out to the wilderness?”
Just then Sylvanus came up the driveway. He rushed to the wagon, stopped, and held on to the sideboard, out of breath.
“Why you running, Baker?” called Horace as he and Pryce came out of the barn. Sylvanus held up his hand, signaling that he couldn’t yet talk.
Next, Alvan Stewart came up the driveway. “I told him he didn’t have to hurry.”
Helen and Maggie joined him.
“Mr. Stewart, may we use your office to forward our letters?” asked Helen. “There are so many unknowns, but we all promise to keep you informed about our whereabouts.”
“I expect nothing less,” he said. “After all, I will have to know where to send money. And there’s Elymas’s third of the estate.”
“We ain’t likely to lose track a that,” said Maggie. She held out her hand. Stewart took it in both of his. “Thank you, Mr. Stewart, for all you done. God bless you and keep you strong. All them people down south need you.”
“I can but try,” said the lawyer.
“Maggie, you must promise me to take care of them,” said Helen, walking to her cart.
“Don’t you think that’s my plan?” Maggie replied, slipping her arm around Helen’s shoulders.
“You have some pretty good plans,” said Helen, smiling weakly. “I can’t believe I won’t see you again.”
“Now, nobody says that. Could be they’re gonna get sick to death a me being in their business. You would too, probably. You can always visit. And don’t worry about nothing. You get married and go on that honeymoon and you work on bringing a baby into this world.”
Helen felt the blush come up her neck. They held each other. Both women had tears in their eyes when they finally broke apart.
“Here,” said Sylvanus, handing Maggie a small wooden bowl covered by a white cloth. “Thy bread starter, as promised.”
“I’m gonna take good care of it.” Maggie climbed up to the driver’s seat. Horace joined her and after a short silent standoff, she took the reins and slapped the horse into motion.
The group watched them go. Pryce put his arm around Helen.
As the cart turned toward Oriskany, Helen realized that three generations were finally going to be together and heading toward their own destinies, free of the dreadful institution that had enslaved them all.
She took a deep breath. She’d never felt so light in her life.
The End
Acknowledgments
This novel has been a Kaylie Jones Book from conception to publication. In 2010, Kaylie saw the writer inside of me and set about nurturing and pushing and insisting that I keep on putting words into sentences. Her steadfast support for this project made me believe that a novel was within my reach. She has my undying gratitude for helping me rebloom into an author.
And thank you, David Black, for helping me see through the mountain of raw material I was uncovering and zero in on the central moral question of this work.
All my love and thanks to my husband, Charles Petzold, writer extraordinaire, whose work ethic I mirrored and whose advice I (mostly) followed. His support, knowledge, and attention to detail have been the foundation for my leap into the historical research that led to this book and so much more. His love has sustained me.
Sincere thanks to my amazing friends and fellow writers who read early versions and helped me down the path toward publication: Shakoure Char, Tina Barry, Mary Horgan, Faye Coleman, Heather Bryant, Robert Strickstein, Sharon Robustelli, Jean Ende, Stacey Lender, Ruth Bonapace, Monique Antoinette Lewis, Barbara J. Taylor, Nina Solomon, Don DiNicola, Petina Cole, Robert C. Strickstein, and Priscilla Tucker at the St. Paul Community Baptist Church. I cannot understate the help from fellow writers at the 2016 retreat in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico: Stacy Kaplan, J. Patrick Redmond, Terri Taylor, Theasa Tuohy, and Janine Veto.
Thank you to Laurie Lowenstein for her invaluable advice and support. Thanks to Trena Keating for her smart suggestions and help.
My deep thanks to the people at Akashic Books and Kaylie Jones Books, especially Johnny Temple.
Others who were of great help in this research include Dr. Milton Sernett, professor emeritus of African American history, Syracuse University; Reverend Robert and Deborah Williams, formerly of Hope Chapel A.M.E. Zion Church, Utica; James Vaughan of Incarcerated Flavors; Dr. Jan DeAmicis, Mary Hayes Gordon, Jean Davis—whose ancestors were formerly enslaved in Oneida County—and all of the Oneida County Freedom Trail Commission; Dr. Kathryn M. Silva, chair of the Department of Humanities at Claflin University; Deitra Harvey, former president of the NAACP, Utica/Oneida County; David Mathis, longtime member of Hope Chapel A.M.E. Zion Church; Mayor Robert Palmieri of Utica; John H. Johnsen, provost, Utica College; the Other Side and their volunteers; Kim and Orrin Domenico; Alison Sinnott, who lets me sleep at her house during all my research trips; Nick Sheldon, who helps keep me fed and entertained; and Susan and Roger Smith for their years of cheerleading. I’m sorry that Roger won’t be there in the front row for the publication party.
I want to thank Tom and Gay Ingegneri, owners of the Cranbury Inn Restaurant in New Jersey for the amazing tour of their historic building that was most likely part of the Underground Railroad.
I send much gratitude to Brian Howard, director of the Oneida County Historical Center, and to the dedicated staff and knowledgeable volunteers. So many librarians have helped along the way, including those at the New York Public Library, the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, the New York State Library and Archives, the Fenimore Art Museum Research Library, Utica Public Library, the New-York Historical Society, Shenandoah County Library, the Library of Virginia, James Madison University libraries, Cornell University libraries, as well as the following institutions: Utica College, Bank of Utica, George Washington’s Mount Vernon, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Farmers’ Museum, the National Museum of African American History and Culture, Fulton Postcards, and the Library of Congress’s Born in Slavery: Slave Narratives from the Federal Writers’ Project.
In 2007, I began searching for the word Utica in the index of every book I saw about the Underground Railroad and African American history. I was convinced that the city of my youth must have been part of the great struggle to abolish slavery. Unfortunately, I was never taught anything about that in the school system. Finally, in one book, I found a reference to the 1835 Utica anti
-abolition riot. The Third Mrs. Galway is one of a group of projects that resulted from that piece of historical information.
Most of the characters in the novel are my own inventions, but some are based on real people: Alvan Stewart, Esq., president of the New York Anti-Slavery Society; Gerrit Smith, who started as a leader of the American Colonization Society but went on to become the second president of the New York Anti-Slavery Society and was one of the “secret six” who funded John Brown’s attack on Harpers Ferry; Congressman Samuel Beardsley, who had a fine political career and who went on to serve on the New York State Supreme Court; Reverend Beriah Green, who was fired from Western Reserve College because of his strident abolitionism and came to Oneida County to be the president of the Oneida Institute of Science and Technology and a radicalizing force in central New York; Reverend Joshua Danforth, the main traveling agent for the American Colonization Society; and Judge Chester Hayden, first judge of the Utica Court of Common Pleas, who ran the proceedings in the real-life case of Harry Bird and George, two men escaping from slavery who became the focus of the successful 1836 Utica rescue. This story is the subject of my upcoming nonfiction book. Hayden moved to Cleveland and went on to help found the Poland Law College, which later became the Ohio State and Union Law College. There are other names I used because I liked the sound of them but know nothing about the real people: Miss Manahan, Sheriff Osborn, Williams & Hollister, Charles Dupre, David Rees, Josiah Tripp, Reverend Quarters, Reverend Asa Hopkins, and others.
Some of the dialogue in the Colonization Society’s meeting scene, in the New York Anti-Slavery Society convention scene, and in the court scene is either quoted or suggested from writings or contemporary newspaper reports of actual speeches.
Other real people who traveled to Utica for the convention are: Lewis Tappan, a wealthy silk merchant and founder of the American Anti-Slavery Society and a major funder and organizer for the defense of the Amistad captives; David Ruggles, an African American abolitionist who ran the first black-owned bookstore in New York City, edited the abolition newspaper the Mirror of Liberty, and was the subject of an attempted kidnapping by men trying to silence his voice by selling him into slavery; and James W. Higgins, an abolitionist and grocer who, with Ruggles, founded the New York City Committee of Vigilance and worked with others at the Dey Street Church to help people escaping slavery. Their dialogue is my own invention.
The Third Mrs. Galway Page 35
