by Gina Danna
Jeremiah stopped at the door and took a moment to check that his necktie was in place, his lapels laid right and that his frock coat was straight. Checking the edges of his hat brim, he inhaled. He was ready so he lifted his hand to knock when the door swung open. There stood the Black butler, an elderly fellow with the tips of his hair whitened. The reflection of his eyes told Jeremiah he’d better behave or else.
“Good afternoon. I am Jeremiah Johnson, here to see Miss Fontaine.”
The butler said nothing but opened the door wider for him to enter. As the butler sauntered off to tell her he was here, Jeremiah couldn’t help the hitch in his heartbeat as his nerves started to frazzle. He frowned. This wasn’t the first time he’d called on a lady, so why was he so nervous? The most she could say was no…he shook the thought. He knew he was nervous because she was beautiful and alluring and a Southern transplant who intrigued him. The dress she wore last night was of higher quality than most who lived here. Her manners were superb, as if she’d been raised white. What was her story? And it was that question that had driven him here.
“Mr. Johnson?”
He glanced up at the staircase and found the lady there, standing in the middle on her descent down. Dressed in a blue and gold striped day gown, she floated down the stairs and took his breath away. In fact, it took him a moment to realize she had questioned him. He gave her a lopsided smile.
“Yes, my lady. Jeremiah, please.”
Off the stairs and walking toward him, she grinned. “Sir, you escorted me out of an event, not off to see my father, therefore, Mr. Johnson, I shall remain formal.”
His hand covered his heart as he claimed, “You wound me so!”
She laughed and the sound warmed his heart. This beautiful woman, with her sparkling hazel eyes and blushing cheeks, had an air around her that he couldn’t define. It was like she was born to wealth and privilege without the discrimination that followed, and he relished in her confidence. It’d taken him years to grapple with the thought of defining his own life.
“To what do I owe this visit?”
He snapped back to reality. “I have come to invite you on a tour of the Remington Art Gallery.”
“It’s rather early, is it not?” And on cue, the grandfather clock chimed eleven.
“It’s the perfect hour,” he replied and offered her his arm.
With a nod, she took it and called the butler for her wrap.
The ride to the gallery was short, for which he was forever thankful. Finding himself in close quarters with her made him nervous and addicted to her all at once. He shifted to try to keep his jitters down and hoped he didn’t look like an idiot.
Remington Gallery sat on 54th Street. A grand building, three stories high, it held displays of art from all over the world, yet it remained quaint enough that a small gathering of visitors never felt overwhelmed. It looked abandoned at the moment, to which he sighed relief.
Jaquita peered out the window. “It looks closed.”
He smiled, to which she frowned. “Have no worries,” he reassured her as he jumped out of the carriage and offered her his gloved hand.
Still with a tight, closed expression, she took his hand and then allowed him to escort her around the side of the building, to the tight roadway. A yell from an oncoming wagon driver made Jeremiah snake his arm around her waist and pull her closer to the building as the conveyance whizzed by. Once safe, he released her, hoping she didn’t feel his tension at the close call.
“Whatever are we doing here, sir?” It was a growl that surprised him. “We walked right past the door!”
He inhaled. “The hall does not open for a couple of hours, but, if we go through here, we can get in for a private showing.”
She raised her brows. “Really?”
He nodded as he knocked on the door.
It opened and a Black man peeked out the opening. “Oh, Jeremiah, I was wonderin’ if you were comin’ or not.”
As the door swung open, Jeremiah directed her inside. “Now, Isiah, I’m only running a might late. Thank you, though, for helping.”
“Anything for the cause,” the man replied with a broad grin as he shut the door behind them. “Missus,” he gave her a slight bow. Jeremiah couldn’t help but grin as she blushed and counted himself lucky to have her with him.
“Mr. Jeremiah, now, don’t need to remind ya, but watch your time.”
“Don’t worry Isiah. We’ll be through before you know it.”
As they walked to the main hall, near the front, his beauty turned to him, a questioning glare on his face.
“If you have connections to get us in for a private showing,” she started. “Why are we being asked to leave—before it opens officially?”
Jeremiah gulped. What a sheltered life she had led, which made him want to the laugh at the irony of that thought since she came from the slavery South. No point dancing around on this, he decided.
“Because, Miss Fontaine, Blacks, freed or not, are not allowed in here except as servants.”
She gasped.
Jaquita swallowed her shock as her escort steered her through the exhibits. She vaguely looked at the lovely paintings and statues, hearing him mumble about each piece as her thoughts scrambled. She’d never run across this at home, or not that she recalled. Though a voice in the back of her head countered that she rarely went anywhere and when she did, it was in the presence of the Fontaines themselves. As to that, she’d be seen as one of their servants. Racing through her memories, she searched for comparison and realized, if this status was there, would they have stopped her without Jack or Cerisa or Francois being with her?
But as the time dwindled to a close, Jeremiah picked up the speed of their tour and aimed them toward the back door.
“Wait.” She stopped, bringing him to a halt. “So we have to also leave by the back door? Like unwanted guests?”
He rolled back on his heels. “My dear Miss Fontaine, part of our mission at the Anti-Slavery Society is to not only to free us from the bonds of slavery, but to get recognition for the people we are, with the same wants, needs and desires of the white people. And as more of us come to the free states, the more the locals encourage us, yet work to regulate us to minor roles of servants and laborers, not a person with own decisions and abilities to do more.”
She mulled his thought and added, “Therefore, according to them, art and niceties like that would be too complicated for us?”
“Yes, for the works of art like we just saw,” he growled.
His arm tightened under her palm and she noticed his jawline locked tight. She’d never considered what he was arguing since at home, she’d never seen it. Truly puzzled, she decided it was a question she’d look at later. With her stomach feeling empty and his mood deteriorated, she sought to redirect his thoughts.
“I am hungry.”
He stopped and blinked hard. “You’re hungry.”
“Yes. Let us stop for a bite to eat,” she prodded. “I saw a lovely place up the street when we drove up.”
“Ah, yes. The Fallen Swan.” He gave her a half grin and covered her hand on his arm with his other hand. “Shall we?”
The rounded the corner and walked half the block when the statue of a swan appeared.
“Now, let me—”
But she climbed the steps to the front door, making his voice falter as he raced up to her side. By then she was at the door.
The doorman didn’t move and continued to look straight ahead. “Servant’s door is in the back.”
“Oh, Alfred, you don’t really think I should go there,” she wooed with her Southern accent rolling on each syllable.
The doorman, Alfred, glanced at her and in that instant, his dire attitude fled, replaced by a warm smile. “Miss Jaquita, apologies. So good to see you! And the rest of the family?”
She laughed. “They are detained. Only me and my friend, Mr. Johnson.”
Alfred shot Jeremiah a quick glance and Jaquita caught a flash in his
eyes, over what she couldn’t imagine. But he returned his attention back to her and said quietly, “This way.”
He led them back to a table on the side. The restaurant wasn’t crowded but there were several empty tables around them. “Enjoy your meal, my lady.”
“Thank you, Alfred.” She sat and the waiter pushed her chair in then disappeared.
Jeremiah took his seat and frowned. “You’ve been here before?”
“Yes. A couple of times. It is my father’s favorite for a quick bite, so to speak.” She opened the menu, right as her stomach growled.
“Well, they might not serve you today.”
That made her tear her gaze off the selections and look at him above the menu edge. “Really? And why might that be?”
“Because we are colored.”
“Oh, please. We’re here to spend money.”
“Jaquita, you don’t have your family with you now,” he stated in a low tone. “And your company is an abolitionist.”
She snorted. “As I recall, New York is a free state, with plenty of freed Blacks here. Why would this place, and any others, reject good money from any hand? Dollars from a white hand is the same as from a Black.” His assumption that their race defined them badly was starting to irritate her.
“It shouldn’t, but—”
The waitress walked up. Jaquita noticed she looked surly at them and that made her frown. The woman stood next to their table, stern and the tension was thick. Jaquita waited for her to say something but the waitress didn’t.
“Hello,” Jaquita started.
The white woman’s chin shifted up. “I ain’t used to serving your type. Freedmen are not to be out here. Albert is gonna git in trouble lettin’ you all back here.”
Jaquita inhaled deep. She’d never had issues like this before. “Annie, right? It’s been a while, but I was here just a month or so ago with my family. The Fontaines? Of Louisiana?”
The woman looked down her nose at her with her eyebrows furrowing. “Yeah, I ‘member ya. But you ain’t suppose to be out here, not wit the likes of him!”
Shocked, Jaquita looked at Jeremiah, who sat perfectly still, and then at Annie. “He’s my guest. You should treat him as you would me.”
The woman waggled her lips, swallowing hard. “If this git me in trouble, serving the likes of you, you gonna git me my job back?”
Jaquita sat speechless. All she could do was nod. She knew her father had money and most of the people who knew them up North knew he was a planter with means. Though she’d never asked a favor as it were, she hoped she didn’t have to.
As the waitress took their order and scurried off, Jaquita realized her hunger was gone and anger sat in its place.
Chapter 7
“Lincoln may bring his 75,000 troops against us. We fight for our homes, our fathers and mothers, our wives, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters!”
—Confederate Vice President Andrew Stephens, July 1861.
Larissa Wainwright tugged her blue leather gloves on, replaying again the conversation she’d had yesterday with Susan Douge. The fiery abolitionist, with the quiet façade, had been hard to persuade when it came to Jaquita Fontaine.
“I realize, Larissa, that you believe she would fit the cause, but I sincerely have my doubts,” Susan argued as she arranged the school room for the freedmen’s children she taught. “She acts as if slavery is an illusion, from her reactions that day.”
“Posh!” Larissa handed her another set of slateboards. “She’s just arrived. She knows no one to speak of, apparently only traveling north with her father and his children. Its very apparent he’s protected her from the realms of reality for the colored community.”
Susan stopped and faced her friend. “From slavery.”
“Yes, assuredly.”
“I doubt that is true,” Susan said, picking up where she’d stopped. “Perhaps he raised her with his children, not a rarity in a wealthy slaveholder’s house. The fact that they did not turn her out with the rest of the slave children is unusual, but then again, maybe not.”
“How do you mean?”
Susan gave her a half-smile with a sympathetic look. “I fear the girl has seen many things that she simply refuses to accept.” Turning again to grab grammar books, a rather poor set Larissa noticed, but for freedmen schools, so typical. “I have met this type before Larissa. Give her time. If you truly believe that she has the drive and abilities to help forge our movement further, than she’ll need to come to grips with her past. Maybe tomorrow or in two months. And something to trigger it, I suspect from the others I have seen, though none of those came from large plantation houses where the size alone can hide evil easier.”
“Well, then I shall pray revelation comes quickly,” Larissa said. “Because I have seen the makings of a strong woman in her. That episode at the bank demonstrated clearly that she’s not afraid of a fight.”
Susan hummed as she cleaned the slate board behind the teacher’s desk. “Did you ever help her get that problem resolved?”
Larissa rolled back in the chair and huffed. “I haven’t made it to Thomas’s yet.”
“You realize he might be too tied up in litigation to help? Plus he’s soon to announce his engagement.”
She laughed. “How did you learn of that?”
Susan shrugged. “How I’ve learned things over the years. By listening. Even up here, in New York, people act as if freedmen are nothing more than fixtures like furniture, unless you need us to do something. Then, all the sudden, we are people.”
“You make us sound despicable.” She shivered.
“No, just another type of student we need to enlighten.” The Albany abolitionist smiled.
Larissa snorted at the memory and tried to make note of the rebuke so as not to fall prey to it.
The carriage door came open and she stepped out. She had a mission. Help pull the lovely Miss Fontaine over to the abolitionist cause and the first step was to get her access to her money. By the time she got to Thomas McHenry III’s desk, she was fired up, ready to enlist him in the cause.
“Mrs. Wainwright, what a pleasant surprise,” Thomas said, glancing up from his work, wearing only his shirtsleeves. Embarrassed, he gave her a smile as he shrugged his frock coat back on, pulled the perched glasses off his nose and stood.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me, Thomas.”
He took her gloved hand and kissed it. “Always my favorite abolitionist and lady.”
“Ah, on that you should be careful. Gossip has it you are to marry and I’m sure the future Mrs. McHenry would not care to hear that,” she jested only to meet his scowl.
“Well, we are not married yet.”
That was a quick response. Intrigued her but she wasn’t here for that.
“I do have a problem I fear will require your services.”
He offered her a seat before he retook his. “How can I be of service?”
Larissa always liked Thomas. He was courteous, to the point and all for the cause.
“You met Miss Jaquita Fontaine?”
He gave her a warm smile. “Yes, I met her. In the market one day. Had an issue with Mattie. You know that Irish lass with the stall there?”
“Oh, yes, who doesn’t?” Larissa tightened. “Let me guess. She didn’t want to sell to her?”
“Exactly. I showed her how that didn’t bode well for business.” He had a smug look on his face, like he’d just saved a client from a wrongful indictment. Her admiration for him soared.
“Well, she has another situation requiring a correction by a man of your influence.”
He leaned forward chin perched at the steeple of his fingertips. “Do tell.”
“Her father, Pierre Fontaine of Louisiana, has sent her funds and deposited them in the bank. Well, she went to make a withdrawal, and they simply will not allow her to take any of it.”
“For whatever reason?”
“Because she is Black, or mulatto, makes no difference co
nsidering.” She pulled her fan out and opened it up. “Not without her ‘massa’ there by her side, despite the fact the account has her name on it, and she had a letter from him saying it was hers.”
His lips curled up at the challenge. “Hmmmm interesting. Which bank?”
“First Market Bank and Trust.”
He drummed his fingertips on the desktop. “I’m familiar with them. I will need to meet with Miss Fontaine, see her credentials and such for this.” He eyed her. “Now, Larissa, does she know you are here on her behalf?”
A nervous twitch caught her eye and a nerve in the cheek on the same side. “Not officially. But I did tell her I’d see what I could do to help her.”
He sighed. “Larissa, that girl is a hellion, from what I could tell. Has to be to be here, alone from what I saw, in New York, even Albany, to try to make it on her own.”
“Do you know of her father, Pierre Fontaine?”
Thomas shook his head. “I don’t have time to read the gossip rags. That is what I have you ladies for.”
“He’s a very influential and wealthy Southerner. Old Creole family. Apparently, he has recognized her or, at the very least, favored her to grant her such, as she’s living in the Fontaine mansion out on Westchester Street. If we could just enlist her in the cause, we might have a fortune come our way.”
“You’re sounding very devious.”
“Thomas, the girl’s money is being held from her. Don’t you think that’s ample cause for aid from a legal expert like yourself?”
Righting himself in the chair, he tossed the pencil stub he’d been whirling around onto the desk. “You are right. Time to go talk to Miss Fontaine.”
Larissa smiled.
Jaquita stood in front of the teller, this time feeling more equipped to take him on than last time. As if she had armor on, thanks to Thomas McHenry III standing just behind her and off to her right. She couldn’t help but feel invincible. Here stood a lawyer, argument in hand as it were, to get her access to money that was hers. Ha!
She walked up to the window to the same clerk. The young man didn’t even look up at first, just sat crouched over his ledger book. Irritated, she cleared her throat after she snapped her fan open and started to wave it.