by Gina Danna
“You do realize, slavery is a necessary evil, right?”
“No, I don’t. We get along just fine up here, with no men in chains and whips in our belts,” she argued.
His eyes swept over her, as he shook his head. “I’d like to see that, you with a whip and all.” He sighed deeply. “We know it’s not any better than holding an alligator by the tail, and if you all in the North had a more practical solution, we’d be thrilled to hear it. But invading our states, our land, isn’t the method to use.”
Silence filled the air for another block as she toyed with an idea.
“Would you like to attend a lecture on the suggestions you call for?”
He frowned. “You want me to go to one of the abolitionist affairs? I might be roasted alive there.”
“We’d sit in the back, where it’s less crowded and quiet.”
He didn’t reply and she walked, hope filling her. No answer gave the possibility he might say yes, eventually. If she could bring him into the abolition gathering, she’d won half the battle of converting him to the abolition camp. She held her breath when he finally answered.
“While overall, I have no burning desire to see my homeland accused of dastardly affairs, I also realize I do owe you for my life, for my leg still working and for that reason alone, I will accompany you.”
A thrill raced down her spine and she wanted to jump, but doing so walking downtown on a busy street in New York was not advised. Instead, she smiled broadly and squeezed his frigid hand. The icy skin reminded her of her purchase and slowly, she pulled the gloves out of her pocket.
“Here, try these.” She pushed them into his hand.
He stared at them, as if confused, but he slowly unclenched his hands and slid them on, every inch slow and the pain screamed across his face until they were ensconced in the leather.
“Thank you,” he murmured, his cheeks flushing.
“You needed a pair.” She gave him a grin but saw how he leaned on the cane much more. “Come, we need to get you back and rested.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As they returned to the house, her heart was aflutter and she buried her wayward thoughts, ones that pushed Richard aside as a new face began to form. Francois.
Chapter 23
America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves.
—Abraham Lincoln
The mere suggestion of accompanying her anywhere intrigued Francois. It kindled a warmth that seeped into him when he was in her presence. Almost enough to bury his heart’s pain, and it thrilled him as well as made him leery. Of course, the mere thought of going to an abolitionist rally chilled that warmth, though curiosity probably would win.
The gift of the gloves surprised him. Like a sly fox, her consideration of him truly amazed him. She was a woman of many facets. It was now making him realize she might have more secrets about her and that got his attention.
But at the moment, his body screamed ‘stop’ and he managed to get to a chair before he collapsed on the floor, despite the cane’s help.
Her lyrical laughter filled the air. “Well done. I was about to suggest we stop for tea.”
He frowned with his gaze silted as he drank in her glow. As a doctor, she radiated. How had the Union Army resigned her to drudgery, he wondered? Though, now, he’d give anything just to sit and not move.
“I’d hoped for more than tea, Doctor,” he argued, her title taking on a French flare as his native tongue slipped out.
“Alas, I fear not.”
The door to the study opened, and James followed the maid who brought the tea tray.
“Miss Lorrance.” The butler handed her a tray of envelopes and with a schooled look of surprise at the stack, Ada took them, pulling one out immediately.
“You were not expecting love letters here?”
She stared at the first letter until his words sank in. “Hardly.” But she stopped, not moving, as if the letter was poisonous.
“Bad news?”
She glanced up, her emotions disappearing under the mask he’d seen her wear in the hospital. Her jaw tightened, anger fighting to surface, because he thought he had a moment to see Ada as a woman, a lady, not just a doctor with a jovial bedside manner.
The professional eyes bore into his as she countered. “How is your ankle doing? We’ve put it through quite a test today.”
Before he could answer, she moved closer, bending down to the floor near the injured foot, raising the trouser hemline for a quick inspection.
“It’s throbbing a bit, though not as badly as it has before.”
“Mmmmm,” she hummed, her focus on his foot. He bit back the pain as she moved it to the side, yet the reality was it didn’t hurt too much after the initial adjustment, which amazed him.
“I don’t see much swelling. But you’re sure you’re all right?”
“Tired. Not bad too much.”
She smiled. “Perhaps it’s healing well.”
“You sound surprised.”
She shrugged. “It was a small, almost hidden break, in an area that we constantly use. It was a surgery that they don’t teach us.”
Francois looked at her, taking in a new view of her. This woman had broken the common societal guidelines and chose helping others instead of marriage, children and running a house. And with that desire, she had saved him.
“Thank you.”
Quickly she looked up, a puzzled look on her face. “For what?”
“For saving my foot. If you’ll recall, that doctor wanted my foot amputated.” He shuddered at the memory.
She frowned. “Yes, well, as I have said, he wouldn’t have anything done, with you being the enemy. Wasn’t right to have you and your men left untreated.”
He grinned. “Merci beaucoup.”
Her lips pursed as if annoyed, but quickly that dissolved into a small smile. “Thank you.”
She stood and went to her seat, but not before he caught a glimpse at the mail. He couldn’t decipher most of it, but he didn’t see anything other than the corner of one that was stamped official by the manner it was written on the return. The one she reacted to was left open, with sparse words, though he thought he could see it signed by some officer. And the third piece she hadn’t opened but he recognized the name on it. From a Miss Reginald Prescott – Amelia. The memories flooded back to him. Amelia Prescott had been the young northern lady both he and Jack had favored, even fought for her attention, summers long ago. It made a warmth race through him.
And now? Was she married? Or a spinster? His mind spun at the mere suggestion lovely Amelia remained unattached. Glancing back, he estimated by the size of the letter, he’d bet the contents.
“So, will you remain true to your word, and come witness an abolitionist rally?”
Francois snorted. “To submit to such enlightenment, I barter a trade. I will go with you to your event if you will attend the Prescott Christmas Ball with me.”
Ada gasped.
She sat, her mouth agape, which she quickly realized was most unladylike—she could hear her mother’s admonishment—so she shut her mouth, her thoughts still replaying what he’d just said. A ball. What would a lady doctor do at a ball?
“Miss Lorrance, you have a visitor,” James announced, right as he was pushed aside by an entourage of women.
Ada remained speechless as the modiste, Madame Florissant, with two of her young helpers, barged into the room. The dressmaker, with a flair, acted as if she was the queen. In the girls’ arms were sewing supplies and material.
“Yes, oui, mam’selle and monsieur. I have the outfit commissioned near completion and require final fitting for any adjustments, though,” she paused with a smile. “My work never requires any.”
Ada frowned. “What commission were you awarded?” She hadn’t requested one, neither had Will from afar she was sure, so what was she talking about?
“It is of no matter. Please s
tand up.”
With a frown, Ada stood. The two girls leaped, gathering around her and working to get the dress on her for fitting. Vaguely, she noticed the room had cleared of all but the modiste and her underlings. Francois had slipped out. It stunned her he had done so.
The silk dress was stunning, she had to admit. The fabric had stripes of brown, ivory, and gross-grained gold with a shadow of dark gray. The skirt rustled as she was turned and the sound mesmerized her. In no time, she was fitted in two bodices and the skirt, with pins flashing and the modiste furiously remarking and writing as they toiled. Ada couldn’t help but compare herself to a rag doll with the little girl who owned her changing her clothes. That almost made her giggle and one did escape.
“Apologies.” She swallowed. “But who, Madame Florissant, ordered this?”
The French woman snorted. “Your husband, of course.” Then she continued in a trail of words Ada couldn’t understand as reality kicked her in the gut. That prisoner posed as her husband to get this made? Who did he think he was? And now she’d have to pay for this?
Oh, she’d make him pay for this! In more ways than just money…
Grandview Hall
The crowd was more than Francois could imagine. As they filed through the double doors, into the main auditorium, he managed his way best he could with the cane and his lopsided walk. Ada was at his side, guiding him through to the side stairs so they could view the event from above, which he was grateful for, because his skin crawled as more people poured in, all to hear about the evils of the peculiar institution, the polite phrase for slavery.
Constantly, he asked himself why he’d agreed to this. The only answer he had was a flimsy one at that. To get out of that prison of a house and breathe, plus to be at her side. It was the last excuse that now made him almost trip on the stairs, because she was one of these people and therefore viewed him as evil, being Southern and a slave-owner. He shook his head.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, just misjudged the step.” He’d have to watch himself more closely. An accident here might be more deadly for him than a battlefield.
“We are just a few feet away. I think this will give us a better view.”
He wanted to laugh. As if he wanted to see this. He glanced at her and noticed she wasn’t wearing the new dress.
“You did not like Madame’s creation?”
He caught her swallowing hard.
“No, it isn’t that.” She struggled. He could see it in her eyes. “But I didn’t consider this the place to wear such a fine piece.”
He nodded. “Entirely understandable.” His own attire, pieced together by the butler from the owner’s wardrobe, was somewhat underrated, but to him, fit an abolitionist yelling match quite well.
They took their seats near the front balcony. She smiled warmly, as if she’d caught the cat who drank from the pitcher of milk, and though perhaps she had in luring him here, he drank in her grin as if it was dessert for a starving man.
A banging on the podium below brought the roar of the audience to a lull and attention on the man behind the stand. He was a tall white man, dressed in his finest. His face had the look of a politician, to Francois’s opinion. As he addressed the crowd, Francois watched the people sitting behind him on the stage. There was a stern-faced woman in a fancy dress, two other white men looking so severe and a black man, with graying hair that was a bit out of control, looking out of place to Francois as he was dressed in fine clothes. Now Francois wasn’t naïve to freedmen, but for one to be dressed so well, outside of New Orleans, surprised him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you here tonight, to listen to a profound orator, a true witness to the evil ‘peculiar institution’ running rampant in the South…” the leader of the event started.
Francois narrowed his gaze. The slanderous tone of this man, condemning all in the South for slavery, rubbed him wrong. He worked hard to conceal the anger that started to burn in his gut, for he’d bet his last Confederate dollar, Miss Ada had brought him here to irritate him. Or, perhaps, to see the ‘error’ in his ways, but considering how this was turning, he doubted it.
The lecturer came to the podium as the audience clapped, including Ada. Francois moved his cane to the front of him, letting the sound of the tip on the wooden floor be his only contribution.
“To my fellow enthusiasts, I humbly rise, to give witness to my ordeal while residing in Alabama not too long ago…” His cadence was good, the words well spoken. Yet to Francois, the irritation grew stronger. No slave spoke that profoundly! Except for LaJoyce and Uncle Jonathan and…he cut the thought immediately. He refused to believe this charlatan.
The crowd, though, adored him. He recalled being cussed at, dragged by chain to the fields, under watchful eyes while working with an armed overseer, being beaten for insolence, for running away and returning, being marked as a thief for having run and that stain was the ‘x’ on his right cheek, and how he and his fellow slaves were starved. As the accusations grew, Francois tightened. The runaway told them everything this audience wanted to hear and with every second counting, as a Southerner, his safety was declining rapidly. He gripped the cane handle tightly, considering it might become his only weapon against a mob if they knew who he was.
Ada cheered with the rest, which dug at his nerves, except her tone lightened as the lecture continued. Perhaps she’d discovered he wasn’t joining her, or maybe she worried that being with him, she too could be pummeled because of who he was.
Finally, the crowd gasped and applauded, standing as the orator bowed. Francois’s gaze narrowed, deciding the man was partially what he claimed to be, though the rest was theatrics. And it was that magic these people devoured. This magic sent them invading his homeland. Finally, the atrocities brought by this made his anger roar in contempt.
“Now,” she started her tone low. “See how bad it is?”
He inhaled, trying to calm frayed nerves. She could turn him in and they’d hang him right away. What was he to say?
Ada watched. The rally had been moving, to her at least, but the heat of tension radiated off him like a fire. His knuckles were white from where he gripped the cane. As the rest of the hall exploded with excitement, she realized she’d maybe gone too far bringing him here. He was her patient and his health should be her main concern, but she let her hatred of slaveholders rule the day. How could she gracefully get them out of there?
He turned to face her, a grin on his face and those sparkling blue eyes alive with fire.
“It appears his life has been horrific. Some households are run poorly.” He shrugged. “Like some of the factories up here and the Irish.”
That comparison stabbed her. “The Irish? They are papists!”
“I’m Catholic,” he replied. “Do you think I’m a papist too?”
“You know what I mean. That religion is ruled by a priest in another country.”
He laughed. “And just like this runaway’s tale, you’ll sweep all slave-owners to being like this?”
Again, he twisted the argument. “You know as well as I that owning another, because of his skin color, is wrong!”
His brows rose as he gave her a contemplative look. “Miss Lorrance. Doctor. There are lousy slave owners. As to their skin color and being a slave, I’ll leave that to the scholars and clergy to argue. But,” he leaned forward. “No bondsman is so badly treated at my family’s home. Slaves are an investment and too expensive to damage.”
“You can’t convince me of that!” Of course, he’d say that, she decided. But how could he prove that?
He raised his chin as he offered her his arm. “I have attended your event, listened to the lecturer and now understand your position. I believe you now owe me in return.”
He was just going to throw this off, as if it meant nothing? She fumed. “We are fighting to gain their freedom! How can you just move forward and expect me to do the same?”
“Because, if we don’t and we continue th
is discussion, others might realize that I am a Southerner and you are harboring a runaway Confederate. And that, my darling Ada, would do neither of us any good. Now, take my arm and let us leave, peacefully.”
Stunned at his apt appraisal and the sudden pit in her stomach when she knew he was right, she grabbed her shawl.
“Well, thank you for coming with me,” she murmured, attempting to make amends since they were residing in the same house.
“It was an interesting show, one I will contemplate more on. There is still so much more you do not understand. Because my type do exist, the North makes money off our peculiar institution. It funds this country. Cotton is the largest export, prior to hostilities. My family grows sugar, another good selling commodity. If we free the slaves, who will work those fields? You? Hardly. The Irish? Doubtfully. Then who? Because the money made is notable. Consider that in your judgment.”
Totally breathless, she took his arm. If what he said was true, what would this country do?
Thankfully, he guided her out as quickly as he could with his halting walk, without being stopped. Her hope to make him see his wrongs now made her wonder how they could solve this issue and free the coloreds. Otherwise, this war would go on forever.
Chapter 24
“No wonder we cannot find or see a reb until we get right upon them. Swampy, hilly, bushes thick as dog hair, grape vines, rotten logs and fallen trees, make up this pretty picture. A fine place to fight in surely: a perfect quagmire.”
—Dr. David Holt, 121st New York
Battle of the Wilderness
The carriage ride back to the house was deathly quiet. Ada sat still, her back perfectly straight, her cloak pulled tight and her vision focused on the city streets they rode down. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Francois adjusting his seat, moving the injured leg slightly, as if trying to find a better position. She should worry about the discomfort he might have incurred in their hasty exit, yet it was their departure out of the rally that still got her irritated, deadening her concerns.