by Alyssa Cole
Roberts didn’t even flinch. “That depends on whom you ask. I am the British consul in Mississippi. Some believe it is my job to increase relations between the South and England. To ensure that trade relations and access to cotton and tobacco are not unduly affected. To pressure other European nations to also recognize the brave and valiant Southern forces.”
“I am asking you,” Daniel said flatly.
Roberts took up a spoonful of stew and chewed politely before answering. “No, I am not aiding the South. I am the British consul in Mississippi. I believe it is my job to convince Britain to cut relations with this abomination of a society for the good of the United States and the world. I believe that there is nothing brave and valiant about owning other humans, and that it’s the job of all civilized nations to soundly reject the core beliefs of the Confederacy.”
Roberts had maintained a mild demeanor since they’d met him, but Janeta saw anger flash through in his response.
“Why?” she asked. “Why do you care?”
She had allowed herself to be misled for so long; Roberts’s clear-eyed condemnation shamed her.
“I care because as long as slavery is sanctioned in this world, either directly or tacitly, we are a doomed species. There is no hope for progress, no hope for a world of peace and prosperity, if some men are allowed dominion over others for as arbitrary a reason as skin color.”
Daniel held his spoon but didn’t eat. It rested against the vegetables in his bowl. “Do you believe financial means to be a better indicator of worth? I was told that you’re an aristocrat, so you’ll understand if I’m a bit skeptical of your support for the downtrodden.”
“I was born into wealth, yes, and trust me when I say that I know where it comes from, and it’s not the backbreaking labor of my ancestors. I don’t believe that an accident of birth makes me worthier of anything. A guillotine perhaps, if I look to my French compatriots across the channel.”
Janeta put down her fork and knife. “Are you saying then that you are for the Union?”
“I am saying that I am against slavery and any government that supports it. As President Lincoln has made his Proclamation, that is an indicator that they’re the side I would like to prevail in this war. But those are my personal feelings. My professional ones are this: Great Britain, despite its foul past, is currently an abolitionist nation. Yet the Confederacy sways my people to their cause. I have been working to show that this Southern government, a gutter trap for all the worst leavings of this fledgling nation, must not be acknowledged. That to do so would be shameful and lowering.”
Janeta didn’t know what to think. His words lifted her spirits—an ally!—but she knew better than anyone that what a person said was not necessarily what they believed. She had been guided to the heart of the Loyal League with the express purpose of finding out their secrets and revealing them to Henry, who would then pass them on to the Sons of the Confederacy. She had changed her mind, but she had been in cahoots with those who wanted to snuff out one of the only hopes for the Union—for people like her—to persevere. Could she really take Roberts at his word?
“This is an interesting revelation,” Daniel said. He took a sip of his water. It was strange how his bearing had changed. He’d had a rough, slightly combustible air to him since they’d met. He’d seemed to get some thrill out of shocking his fellow detectives with his flaunting of the rules, and Janeta by occasionally following them. But here he was, seemingly comfortable debating with a British aristocrat. “If this is the case, why must you hide your true intentions?”
“I suppose I could ask you the same,” Roberts retorted. “But I already gave you my answer. I am the British consul in Mississippi. It’s much more efficacious for the people I encounter daily to believe I am for their cause. The things they tell me—the casual cruelty and inveterate laziness of their characters revealed in everyday conversation—provides the most damning evidence that I can relay back to Parliament. And when people believe you are on their side, they will tell you anything.”
He looked over at Janeta and she was stricken by the way his gaze lingered on her.
No. There is no way he can suspect. He is in the middle of nowhere. He’s likely never even heard of Palatka, let alone me.
His gaze slid away, leaving a residue of fear covering Janeta’s fine, clean clothing and her shiny new convictions.
You are a fraud, the voice in her warned. Daniel should trust Roberts more than you.
“That the people here believe I am for the South is why President Davis will be stopping here for dinner in a few days as he makes his way back from out West. And this is why some people who are very invested in the South strengthening their relationship with Europe will be attending our meeting.”
“Will there be representatives of other European powers at the meeting apart from you?” Daniel asked.
Roberts raised a brow, affronted. “I am the supposed link to stronger European relations. The British are not known for giving away our power easily.”
For Davis. And the Sons of the Confederacy.
Janeta pushed her food around on her plate and when she looked up, Daniel was watching her with keen interest. She looked back down at her stew.
“So. Out with it,” Roberts said. “Are you with Furney Bryant? Daughters of the Tent? Or is it the 4L?”
Daughters of the Tent? Janeta wondered how many groups there were working to undermine the Confederacy. How many networks large and small, toiling in secret and hunted by Rebels and never given proper due for their bravery. She didn’t answer him, though, and neither did Daniel.
Roberts lifted a shoulder. “I’m quite good at finding out things people would rather I didn’t. It’s not my personal talent—I have agents who work at that. My talent is seeing the potential in others and putting it to use. You don’t have to tell me who you work with, for I will know soon enough. But you both have potential, likely currently harnessed by someone else, and don’t seem to wish me harm.”
He looked at Daniel, and Janeta saw a flash of cunning in Roberts’s eyes. “I do believe if you stay for the meeting things will be even more interesting. By the way, neither of you bothered to ask me what those organizations were, so might I assume I’m on the right track? Oh, the next course is arriving. Let’s save this dreadfully boring talk for later.”
Janeta had barely eaten her stew, but she let her bowl be taken away as she stared at Roberts. For the first time in her life she couldn’t get a read on another person, and not because she was letting herself be deceived. If this Roberts was as good at getting information as he’d pretended, if he found out why she had originally joined the Loyal League . . . her heart heaved painfully in her chest.
She had already lost everything, including all that she’d been taught about herself. Now she might lose Daniel and the Loyal League, too.
* * *
Daniel had been right about her not knowing what true cold was; early November in Mississippi surely wasn’t anywhere as cold as Massachusetts, but Janeta still shivered beneath her cloak as she walked through the garden, which was likely resplendent in summer but now boasted shades of dull green and brown. It was apparently colder than usual, and rain and wind had shaken the leaves from the trees. The fading leaves that littered the ground gave the bleak landscape a hint of color, but the lack of brightness and sunshine filled Janeta with a longing for home.
Home.
Mami and Papi laughing. The brilliant green of a palm leaf, the chattering of birds and frogs, the smell of the ocean wind, and the incredible blue of a summer sky in Santiago. More than that, she longed for her innocence, for a time before she’d known slavery was wrong and that she’d had some part in that wrongness.
No. She would never want to be that ignorant again. If she had never left Cuba, she would have never learned about who she was and who she might be, and she would never have met Daniel. Now that she had some quiet, that hurt to think of, too.
She looked up, suddenly yanked
from the depths of her musings, and there he was.
Daniel sat on the porch in just his shirt, cupping a mug of something warm and steaming in his hands. He was watching her; she had no idea how long he’d been there.
“Aren’t you freezing?” she called out, unable to hide her disbelief, and because she needed to do something with the silly burst of giddiness that exploded in her at the sight of him. She began making her way to him, keeping her steps measured.
He chuckled, lifting his shoulders as she approached. “I’m a New Englander, Sanchez. I’m overdressed right now.”
She scoffed, then stood awkwardly before him as she reached the steps leading to the porch.
He was still looking at her as if she were a great distance away, or as if he was searching for something within her. “Seemed like you were walking off some worries. Penny for your thoughts?”
Fear seized her.
“You offer too much. A Confederate dollar would do,” she said as her shoe hit the first step. She paused and looked up at him, imagined telling him what she had been thinking of. His warm brown gaze would ice over and his full lips would pull into a sneer.
She would lose him someday soon, and it ached so much more than it should have. More than Henry’s deceit, more than her longing for home.
“I was wondering what life would have been like if I had never left Cuba,” she said, starting up the stairs. That was close enough to the truth. “I would not have learned many things if I’d stayed. I—” She could tell him a little maybe. “I grew up on a plantation. For a long while, I was taught that I was not like the people enslaved there. And I believed it. And if I had not joined the Loyal League maybe I would have always believed it.”
She expected him to make a remark about how foolish she was, but he simply sipped his tea and nodded.
“Sounds like you must have had some hard realizations then, huh?”
“Honestly? Some days I don’t even know who I am. I try to remember who I was, but that person no longer exists. And I don’t want to be her anymore, anyway.” She cautiously sat beside him—cautious because now when she was close to him she felt like being closer, like she couldn’t be close enough. Tonta. “I suppose that now I’m trying to figure out just who it is I want to be.”
He laughed and shook his head. “It’s that simple is it?”
“Maybe. I hope so. And even if it’s not simple, I don’t have much choice.” She rested her elbows on her knees and leaned forward, staring out across the lawn. “You can’t live in the past, so you have to choose what you can of our future.”
He cleared his throat. “When I was kidnapped into slavery, they brought me back to the farm and introduced me to the other enslaved people and I was completely at a loss. What was the damned correct salutation for that? I was frightened and angry and frustrated. I didn’t understand.” He sighed and rolled his cup back and forth in his palms. “Why did they do the work? Why did they treat the ignorant overseer like a god? Why didn’t any of them do something to stop this, instead of just working themselves to death for nothing?”
A familiar anger was in his voice and when Janeta looked at him his eyes were closed. She finally understood something—the anger and hatred and fury she had read in his eyes that first day had been correct, but she’d mistakenly thought he hated everyone. No; Daniel Cumberland hated himself.
She placed her hand on his forearm and he let a sigh slip out and opened his eyes.
“I tried to talk sense into the other slaves. I tried to reason with the overseer. I started secretly teaching the children their letters. And one day, one of them got caught. Winnie.”
“Ay Dios, no,” she whispered. Her grip tightened on Daniel’s arm. “You didn’t know—”
“I knew. I studied law, remember? I knew that it was against the law, but I also knew that it was wrong. I was so sure of myself that I was reckless. I paid for it, as you’ve seen, but Winnie?” He tensed beside her. “She was nine, small for her age. A wisp of a girl. And Finnegan beat her as viciously as he beat me. And to teach the other children a lesson, he took his boot to her fingers.”
Tears welled up in Janeta’s eyes. She tried not to cry; this was his pain, not hers. But she thought of his wails into the night. How gentle he could be with others while being hard with himself. She’d thought herself good at giving people what they wanted, but Daniel had crafted a much more convincing façade than she ever had. He’d convinced others that he didn’t care for their esteem, when that was a lie. He simply didn’t think himself worthy of it.
She slipped her hand down his forearm and clasped her fingers around his palm. He didn’t let go of his mug, but he loosened his hold to allow her hand more contact with his. She stared at him, trying to figure out what he needed. Absolution? Forgiveness? No.
“Sometimes we do things that we think are right, and others get hurt because of it,” she said. “My father is imprisoned because I was passing along information. He is older and sickly and imprisoned. Because of me. And . . . I’ve done worse. So I can’t tell you to forgive yourself for what happened. I can’t say that it’s all right.” She paused, struggling to find the right words in English. “The only thing we can do is try our best not to hurt others again. I think that is reasonable. And maybe not to treat ourselves worse than we would treat our enemies.”
She looked at her hand clasping his because she was afraid to look at his face. Afraid he would ask her what that “worse” she had done was.
“Janeta.”
She had to turn her head toward his; that request had been in the way he said her name, and she couldn’t deny him.
His gaze roamed over her face, searching, and a wry grin had replaced his frown. His beard was starting to grow again and she wanted to run her hands over the stubble. To pull his face close.
“And to imagine I was upset at being partnered with you. Perhaps I ought to give Dyson more credit. And you should give yourself the same.” His face was so near and his body was so warm in the cool afternoon air. “You’re new to this world, in more ways than one, but when it comes down to it, your instinct is to do good. That counts a lot more than any of your sins, I’d think.”
She sucked in a trembling breath and nodded. His words filled her up with hope, and suddenly she was longing again. Not for home, or for the past, but for a future where she could lean into him and take more of his warmth, and give it to him, too. Giving and taking—it happened so naturally between them.
When he finds out . . .
As if summoned by her sudden anxiety, Roberts stepped onto the porch, a letter in his hand.
“There’s been words from one of my contacts that the Sons have been active in town over the past few days. I imagine they’re doing a sweep before the meeting takes place. The men sniffing about said they were Home Guard when asked, but they would have been local if that was true. Just letting you know.” He pointedly didn’t look at their hands. “Beautiful day out. I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me.”
Daniel stood. “I’d have a word with you about sending a letter or two.”
He looked back at Janeta before following Roberts inside. The sound of their heavy tread disappeared into the house and Janeta hugged her arms around herself. If Roberts truly was a collector of information he might find out her awful secret. If members of the Sons of the Confederacy were arriving, they might know her for who she was. There were so many reasons to reveal the truth to Daniel and only one that she didn’t: she had lost everything she knew, and she didn’t want to lose him, too.
CHAPTER 19
Daniel didn’t understand this kind of wealth. The sitting room with its fine furniture and delicate wallpaper and lavish decorations made him uncomfortable. He focused on the grill over the fireplace; it was perhaps the only object in the room he could truly feel at ease with.
His family had been well-off compared with many other Negro families, but they hadn’t led lives of luxury by any means. His father had worked with his hand
s, a blacksmith, and Daniel had come up at his side. When he’d decided to leave working with his hands and try his turn at law, Daniel had thrown himself into his studies with fervor while still assisting his parents as much as he could. He’d never had the pleasure of lazing in a parlor as big as his family home, waiting for work to fall into his lap.
It was maddening.
The only thing he could think of to pass the time was to seek out Janeta, but that wouldn’t do. Without the stress and travel that had marked the majority of their partnership to distract him from his distinctly unwanted feelings, any time spent with her was dangerous. He liked the way she looked at him. He liked that she had opened up to him on the porch the previous day, and hated that she still held back on the most important things.
He’d wanted to kiss her as she held his hand, to feel her lips against his. He didn’t regret sharing his experience with her, but he wasn’t a fool. Things had changed between them, or maybe what had been there right from the start had finally been allowed to surface. He knew what could happen if they were given enough time alone now—he’d been imagining those scenarios in great detail. How soft her skin would feel beneath his hands. How she would look up at him with those deep brown eyes of hers. He’d been imagining and desiring and, worse, starting to think that maybe he was allowed to do so. That he was worthy of being desired in return.
“You’re a good man,” she’d said as they’d walked behind Jim and Augustus’s wagon, voice urgent, as if she might will him to accept her words as truth.
It scared him, the possibility that he wasn’t broken and unworthy. Or that he was, and the only one who would begrudge him it was himself.
He thought of Dyson, and Logan, and Carla, of Jim and Augustus and Shelley—all the others who had suffered and were dealing with that suffering in their own way, but who’d still had some measure of faith in him. Of his parents and friends who had tried to help him, though they hadn’t known how.
The voice in his head that often shouted him down and pointed out his flaws was still there, but another voice was growing stronger. One that whispered of how things had been for him once and how they could be in the future. One that heard the ugly recriminations ricocheting in his mind and said weakly, but defiantly: No. I am good. I am worthy.