Ladies who saw Mary Davenport with her boys saw a picture of moneyed serenity, maternal bliss, composed and assured, her worries gone. Her clothing and hair were the envy of her friends. And the children were strapping and healthy: George, almost ten, tall, a miniature version of his father; Paul, cheeky and gregarious as ever; Sonny, returned to the fold. True, he was often sullen and refused to play with anyone other than his brothers, and he never spoke. But who could say what terrible things he’d survived during his time away from his family? Everyone agreed, though, that he would forget.
With the many advantages the Davenports enjoyed, they both knew, deep inside, that life would eventually right itself. Their moment of scandal would be forgotten, papered over by their good deeds, generous hosting and John Henry’s professional achievements. They needed only to stay the course, to live the lives into which they’d been born. For it was too exhausting for Opelousas to forever refresh its distrust and disappointment when it was clear the world was built for people like the Davenports, built to give and forgive them everything.
CHAPTER FORTY
Mrs Penny and Anna Beth fed baby Lily cow’s milk they warmed on the stove, placed her pram under the leafiest trees, sewed smocks and knitted sweaters, rubbed her gums with morphine syrup and sang her lullabies. Mrs Penny talked of entering Lily in the Better Babies Contest at next month’s spring fair, then decided against it after hearing that John Henry Davenport would be attending to judge the pies. ‘Let’s wait for the state fair,’ Farmer Penny suggested. He carved a rattle for Lily, attaching a silver bell he’d bought specially, and set about unboxing Anna Beth’s old dolls.
The Penny women cared for Grace, too, encouraging her to eat soups and stews, broth – though by April the weather was warm – and guiding her to wash and dress, when she often had no interest in doing so. Sometimes, in the early afternoon, Mrs Penny and Anna Beth walked with Grace around the farm, stopping to feed the chickens, check if hung sheets were dry or cut herbs to go in the pot for dinner. The walks were slow, and the practical elements a ruse: the farm chores were done to a schedule, and the chickens, befuddled, pecked at the extra meals with a speed that suggested they knew the madness wouldn’t last.
Mrs Penny had long used walking as medicine for her children and herself. And Grace was more talkative when they were outdoors, moving, her eyes landing on fresh flower buds and seedlings opening to the sun, but the beneficial effects never lasted long. Once they returned to the farmhouse kitchen, though it was scrubbed and polished and there was a vase of pinks on the table, Grace fell back into silence.
Farmer Penny sat with Grace in front of the fire at night. He occupied one armchair, put his socked feet on the stool, smoked his pipe and chatted about the animals, the garden, as he’d done with his children when they were little and Mrs Penny had needed sleep. Grace curled up in the other armchair, draped in a lamb’s-wool blanket, and watched the flames.
Sometimes after midnight, when everyone else was in bed, Anna Beth took her father’s place and kept Grace company, teaching her the wisdom that could be gleaned from the spirits and the stars. She sat on the floor and laid out her tarot cards, Celtic Cross her preferred arrangement, on a purple cloth, always with an eye to describing a bright future for Grace. The Justice card every time, which made sense. The Wheel of Fortune: a turn for the better, luck. That was good. The Ace of Cups, though? There must be some way of interpreting that aside from her usual reading of marriage and fertility.
When Grace asked her to, Anna Beth consulted the cards about Ned. Lily, at eight months, was too young. Ned’s future, she said, would be positive, without a shadow of doubt. ‘See? King of Coins again.’ She couldn’t make sense of the persistent message that the events of Ned’s life reverberated after his death, so this wasn’t something she discussed with Grace. The Temperance card, liquid flowing from one vessel to another, the rebirth of the soul. The Sun. Perhaps, she thought, the boy was more special than anyone realised.
When the rest of the Penny clan came to visit – Farmer and Mrs Penny’s grown sons, their wives and children – Grace and Lily were treated with gentleness and respect. They understood that Grace’s loss was like a death, and no death was worse than that of a child. The Pennys told Grace to stay at the farm as long as she pleased, forever if she wanted: she was family.
And Grace might have stayed at Penny Farm, had it not been for Sheriff Sherman.
On a mild Saturday afternoon drifting into a rainbow dusk, as Mrs Penny chopped carrots, with Anna Beth nearby washing Lily in the kitchen tub, Farmer Penny at the table cleaning out his pipe, and Grace folding clothes – determined to fight her lethargy and be of use – Sheriff Sherman knocked on the front door. Farmer Penny invited him into the living room and must have looked perplexed enough that the sheriff quickly offered that this was a social visit – no one had been hurt or arrested. There was no trouble of any kind. Grace and Mrs Penny, hearing the sheriff’s voice, rushed out from the kitchen.
‘Have you come about Ned?’ Grace asked.
‘Grace, he’s only just walked in the door. You might want to start with hello.’ Mrs Penny turned to the sheriff. ‘Please excuse her. She’s not herself right now.’ She paused. ‘But is that why you’re here?’
Farmer Penny, Mrs Penny and Grace stood in a line facing the sheriff, waiting for him to speak. He exhaled heavily. ‘I’m sorry but no, I’m not here about Ned.’
The three issued a soft ‘ah’, then Farmer Penny made small nods at nothing and Mrs Penny muttered, ‘coffee,’ and disappeared into the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry if I woke fresh hope about your boy,’ the sheriff said to Grace. ‘Nothing’s changed. I came to –’
‘Take a seat,’ Farmer Penny said, sitting down facing the sheriff.
Mrs Penny returned with a tray holding full mugs, Anna Beth walking behind her with Lily washed, dressed and held against her shoulder.
The sheriff spoke to Grace. ‘I’m not here in an official capacity. I wanted to know how you were getting on, how you were managing after … I wanted to tell you I’ve been thinking about your situation a lot these past few months, and I feel badly about what happened to you. It wasn’t right. I know that now.’
Anna Beth swayed back and forth, then at Grace’s request passed Lily down to her. ‘Ace of Cups,’ she said, smiling, though no one knew what that meant.
‘Have you seen Ned?’ Grace asked.
‘I’ve seen him from afar, playing with his – the other boys. They get on well, those three. He has good company in them.’
Grace had asked the Pennys countless times to drive the buggy past the Davenport house, but they’d resisted, saying were the boy to see her it would confuse and distress him, and in no way alleviate her pain. ‘What if we were to swoop him up and leave? Who could stop us?’ she’d said. ‘That would be kidnapping, Grace,’ Farmer Penny had said. ‘I know it makes no sense, but your boy isn’t yours anymore.’
So though it pained her to think of Ned with another family, she was glad to hear he was happy enough to play, and had friends in the Davenport boys.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Mrs Penny asked if anyone would like more coffee, but no one did. Anna Beth left the room without explanation. Farmer Penny smiled at the sheriff, nodded at nothing in particular.
‘I never got to thank Esmeralda properly,’ Grace said, patting Lily gently on the back.
The sheriff hadn’t expected to hear Esmeralda’s name but was keen to show an interest in anything Grace said. ‘I’m sure she – It’s kind that you’d want to –’
‘She took such a risk in coming out here to help me. I can imagine the Davenports’ rage. Do you know where she went?’
‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’ The sheriff tried to think of anything more he could say about Esmeralda, but he hadn’t seen her since before the trial, so was at a loss.
Mrs Penny frowned. ‘It’s never in your interest to side with a Negro, Grace.’
‘S
he sided with me. I can’t see how that was in her interest.’
‘Well, it was her choice.’
‘A brave one, you have to admit,’ Farmer Penny said.
‘Oh yes, she’s brave,’ Mrs Penny said. ‘No doubt about that.’
Anna Beth walked back into the room carrying Mr Miggs, placed the cat on the rug, then walked to her mother and whispered in her ear. She’d understood the situation more quickly than anyone.
‘Oh,’ Mrs Penny said, then asked Farmer Penny to join them in the kitchen. ‘That troublesome pantry door,’ she said, clucking.
As they left Grace and the sheriff together to talk, Mr Miggs leapt up onto Grace’s lap. Mrs Penny reasoned that since they were a few feet away, Grace and the sheriff were not alone in any compromising way. Also, he was the sheriff. She wasn’t one to jump the gun, but if there was any chance that Grace might have a suitor, how wonderful that would be. Anna Beth had good instincts for these things.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
By March, Esmeralda and her three children, Annalise and her two children, and Uncle Joe and Aunt Celestine had enough money to leave Opelousas. They were almost ready, and were excited and anxious in equal measure. The trip to New York by slow train would take several days, with three legs after New Orleans – north to Cincinnati, east to Philadelphia, then up to New York City – and many stops along the way. They’d heard from others that not every station had a coloureds water tap or food, and that they’d need to spend a sleepless night in Cincinnati station. The journey would be uncomfortable, dirty, crowded. Then, from Pennsylvania Station they’d need to get to a boarding house in Harlem, where a friend of Joe’s had arranged temporary accommodation for them. After that, they were on their own, together.
They had to leave. Without a reference from the Davenports there was no work for Esmeralda in Opelousas, and neither New Orleans nor Baton Rouge was a safe place for women or girls. Esmeralda felt sure they’d find opportunities in New York. She’d say the old lady she’d worked for had died, get Celestine to write a letter from her. She knew how. ‘Mrs Mary Contrary,’ Celestine had laughed. ‘Oh how she loved you, Es. Final moments on Earth and all she could think of was finding you a new home.’ Joe had a reference from the livery so he’d get work; his friend in New York had assured him of that. The railroads were in dire need of labourers. And the children would do what they could: domestic or factory work.
Once they arrived, they’d sell the fancy dress Mary Davenport had given Esmeralda – with thanks to Sula for having been brave enough to deliver it with the rest of Esmeralda’s things – and the small mountain of jewellery Celestine had accrued over many years from the rich ladies of Opelousas in return for keeping them free from curses. ‘Should’ve given me more,’ Celestine said. ‘The things they’d done.’
So, on a Monday afternoon, Esmeralda went into town with Joe to find out when trains went to New York. It was a warm day, bright, with cotton-ball clouds. Birds tumbled and played in the horses’ water trough outside the barbershop. Women wearing white drifted along the brick sidewalk.
As Esmeralda and Joe walked up Main Street to the station, another batch of orphan children, freshly arrived, tagged, were being ferried out to motor cars and buggies. Some of the children walked in the company of a man or couple who’d pre-ordered them. The others, about two dozen of them, would be herded into the town square to be inspected for purchase.
‘It’s not right,’ Esmeralda said to Joe. ‘I don’t care what Mason says. Look at their faces. Terrified.’ She clicked her tongue and pointed at a knock-kneed girl in a worn cotton dress. ‘You know Mr Conroy won’t do anything other than work that poor little thing to the bone.’
‘Might do something worse than that,’ Joe said.
Esmeralda stopped and elbowed Joe when she saw Tom McCabe striding towards them. Joe made it clear they should keep going but Tom stopped as well, nodded hello, though he appeared far from pleased at seeing them.
‘Mr McCabe.’ Esmeralda bent down to pat Walter, who was as bouncy as a puppy at the sight of her.
‘I heard you’d left town.’ Tom ignored Joe.
‘We’re about to.’ She kept her eyes on Walter. ‘Tomorrow maybe, depending. Oh rabbit-dog, I’ve missed you.’ Walter nuzzled into her apron and though there were no treats there, not even the crumbs of one, he stayed while she stroked his back.
Tom relaxed at Esmeralda’s news. ‘That’s for the best, I’m sure. Mr Davenport will be mayor soon, and I can’t think who’d hire the housekeeper that turned on him.’
Esmeralda gave Walter a last pat then stood upright. Tom hadn’t developed any subtlety. But she’d lost her income, her bed, her reputation, and she was leaving town, so Esmeralda wasn’t sure she needed to be subtle either.
‘Turned on him – that’s how you’re telling it?’
Tom shrugged. ‘That’s how I see it.’
‘You know, for a while there, when you came to read to Mrs Davenport, I thought you were a good man. Trying to get one up on the other reporters, I could see that. But doing it in a kind way – that meant something.’
Tom gave a small nod by way of acknowledging the compliment. But Esmeralda wasn’t done.
‘Then as soon as you found your footing in that house you puffed up like a rooster, so proud of your own self, of your patience and the hours you were putting in. Started to think you were doing the Davenports a favour by showing up, started to think you were their friend.’ She stepped closer. ‘But the Davenports don’t have friends like you. You were working for them, same as me, but without getting paid. So more fool you.’
Tom’s expression grew dark. Had there not been a sidewalk full of people he would’ve yelled at Esmeralda, maybe even struck her. ‘I’m no fool, I assure you. I’m a reporter. And I did my job.’
‘Did you? I thought it was your job to tell the truth. But I dropped the truth right in your lap and you brushed it off.’
Joe coughed to get Esmeralda’s attention. This was risky behaviour. They needed to walk away, and quickly.
Tom had already been raked over the coals that morning by Mr Collins, again. His editor prided himself on sticking by his reporters, but said he’d had to stick by Tom one too many times. And it was hard for him to defend his star reporter’s lapses in judgement with the Davenport story. ‘Reporters aren’t supposed to get sweet on the people they write about, McCabe,’ he’d barked at Tom. Since the trial, Tom had been relegated to less controversial stories, writing about Mr and Mrs Smith’s narrow escape after their buggy fell into a crevasse, the relieving drop in the level of the Atchafalaya River before the May rises, the Daughters of Isabella extravagantly entertaining at the Knights of Columbus Hall. He didn’t care about any of it and, according to Mr Collins, it showed. He’d scrunched Tom’s latest story into a ball and told him to take a walk and come back when he was ready to be a reporter again.
Now this. The whole world seemed to want to tell Tom he was failing as a writer and a man.
‘There’s no such thing as the truth, Esmeralda. There’s your truth, my truth, Mary’s, John Henry’s, Gideon Wolf’s. There’s a gussied-up truth and one that’s plain as Jane. You don’t have any licence on some single inviolable truth.’
‘That child was stolen from his mama. There’s no getting around it. The Davenports may not pay on Earth for what they’ve done, but sooner or later they’ll pay. God will punish them for stealing one of His own.’
‘Oh, yes, I see, God.’ She’d never heard him use a tone so simultaneously furious and mocking. ‘Wouldn’t you say God made His thoughts clear when He let Judge Roy send the boy home with the Davenports? That must tell you something about God’s will?’
‘Tells me God has a plan we don’t understand,’ Esmeralda said. ‘I pray for that mother and child every night.’
‘Thank you, Jesus,’ Joe murmured.
‘Sonny Davenport lives in a mansion, with parents who can give him anything he wants. Seems you’d be better off pray
ing for yourself.’
‘Money’s no substitute for love,’ Esmeralda said.
‘They love him.’
‘Not like his mother would.’
Tom snorted. ‘His mother. It’s a shame we’ve ended up here, Esmeralda. You really do think some great wrong has been committed, don’t you? Well, I don’t see it. I know that family inside and out, and I don’t see it.’
‘You’re seeing what you want to see, what’s best for you.’
‘I see someone who doesn’t know when she should leave well enough alone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.’
Tom clicked his fingers and whistled to get Walter away from Esmeralda, but the dog ignored him. It wasn’t the departure Tom would’ve chosen.
‘They’ve messed with God and Nature,’ Esmeralda said, as Walter leaned against her leg. ‘The Davenport line from now till eternity will be stained by the crime those two committed.’
Tom whistled more insistently for Walter, then started to walk away in the hope he’d follow.
‘The Devil will take them,’ Esmeralda called out. ‘He’ll take John Henry and Mary Davenport. And the Devil will take you, too, Tom McCabe.’
Tom stopped and turned. ‘What did you say?’
Joe tugged hard at Esmeralda’s sleeve. ‘That is enough.’
‘The Devil sees every choice you make, Tom McCabe. It’s not too late, though, never too late to stand up for the truth.’
Tom looked around for the nearest building she couldn’t enter. He marched towards the Opelousas Hotel saloon and pushed open the doors.
‘Goodbye, rabbit-dog,’ Esmeralda said quietly.
So he was going to Hell. Might as well go drunk. Tom downed his whiskey in one gulp, shoved his free hand in his pocket and felt the silky lining on his knuckles, wool on the heel of his palm. But his lucky pennies weren’t there. Which made some weird sense. His luck had dried up.
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