Sally gestured to the middle post. “See this here mark?”
The girls drew closer to study a knot in the wood. After a moment, Frances discovered a curious pattern almost hidden within the wood grain, not a natural variation of the bark but a symbol carved by hand. “What is it?” she asked. “Did Indians carve it?”
“Indians,” Sally echoed, scornful. “I left that mark myself. It tells runaways that if they hungry they can get vittles from this kitchen. All of them runaways know this sign, and I have fed many a one.”
“Runaway slaves?” Betsey gasped. “Here?”
“That rapping you heard was likely someone trying to get my attention. Probably too hungry to wait in the woods until nightfall.”
“Do Papa and Ma know about this?” asked Frances.
Sally eyed her sharply. “What do you think?”
“I expect not,” she replied, chagrined.
“Mammy Sally,” said Mary, “you know it’s against the law to help runaway slaves. You could get in a lot of trouble. I’ll go into the woods and give him the food myself.”
Some of the tension around the older woman’s eyes eased. “No, honey. He would hide from you like a scared rabbit. No hand but a black hand can give him this food, no matter if he be starving.” She sighed and flipped the corner of her shawl toward the house. “You girls go back inside and finish your sewing. Remember you promised to say nothing to no one. If you break your vow, that old blackbird over there will fly down to hell tonight and tell on you to the Devil.”
They were too old to believe their mammy’s superstitious tales anymore, and yet Frances felt a pang of foreboding, and the two younger girls shivered.
Wordlessly, they hurried off to the house while Sally made her way into the woods, stepping on bare patches and broad stones to avoid leaving a trail through the snow. They said nothing, not even in whispers, as they put away their boots, hung up their wraps, and settled back down to work. Mary eventually began chattering away about a poem she had recently read, and for once Frances was grateful for her sister’s gift of gab, which allowed Frances to mull over the morning’s events without feeling obliged to join in the conversation.
Later that night, when the little ones were asleep and the older children were preparing for bed, Mary caught Frances alone in the hall outside their bedroom. “Do you think Mammy Sally will run away?” she murmured.
“I don’t think so,” said Frances, taken aback. “Helping a hungry runaway is one matter. Running away oneself is quite another.”
“Do you think she and Auntie Chaney and Nelson and the others are happy here?”
For a moment Frances could only look at her, bemused. “Do you really want to know what I think?” Mary so rarely did.
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”
“Well, Mary—” Frances hardly knew where to begin. “How would you feel in their place?”
Mary regarded her, uncomprehending. “I’ll never be in their place.”
“All the more reason you should think about it. Auntie Chaney has to get permission to visit her own husband. Mammy Sally hasn’t seen her family since Christmas. Every slave in this household has family somewhere else, and Papa and Ma keep them apart.”
“Papa can’t afford to buy them all, and even if he could, Ma would say there isn’t enough room.”
Frances sighed, exasperated. “That isn’t the point. Look, I’m tired. My eyes ache from sewing. Please get out of the way so I can go to bed.”
“I can’t believe Mammy wants to be free,” said Mary plaintively. “How could we do without her, and how could she manage without us? She loves us.”
“I’m sure she does, but—”
“None of our slaves need fear Papa would ever sell them.” Mary’s voice had risen, but she quickly caught herself, glanced over her shoulder, and lowered her voice to a whisper again. “It would be like selling off a member of the family. We love them and they’re happy here. Our family isn’t cruel to slaves, not like those horrid people you read about in the papers. Didn’t Grandma Parker and Grandma Humphreys both put in their wills that after they pass on, their slaves are to be freed?”
“If Grandma Parker and Grandma Humphreys love their slaves so much, why not free them now? It’s no sacrifice to free your slaves when you’ve passed beyond needing them.” Sharply, Frances added, “Don’t you dare repeat what I’ve said to them or to Papa, Ma, or anyone.”
“I won’t say a word.”
“You’d better not. If I get in trouble, I’ll know it’s you who tattled.”
Mary drew herself up, affronted to have her integrity questioned but pleased to be included in an elder sister’s secret. “I said I won’t.”
Frances nodded and went off to bed, hoping Mary would keep her word. It was good, she supposed, even at the risk of displeasing Papa and Ma, that Mary was questioning the way things were, when slavery contradicted many of the principles they had been brought up to revere about their country and their faith.
In truth, Mary was not the only Todd sister who knew of Frances’s deep ambivalence about their family’s slaveholding, past and present. She and Elizabeth had talked it over many a time, their conversation always in secret, always conflicted and impassioned. Perhaps their family’s servants were treated relatively well, but they were still enslaved, unable to make simple choices for themselves. For example, as proven that very day, they needed permission to visit their own families, from whom they were forcibly separated. Who could ever be truly happy in such circumstances, even with plenty to eat and a roof over their head?
Every year tensions over slavery seemed to grow, not only in Lexington but throughout Kentucky and beyond. Stories filled the newspapers and the rumor mill about masters brutalizing their slaves and slaves suddenly fighting back, with deadly consequences. Not three years before, slaves bound for the Lexington market had turned upon their captors, leaving corpses scattered on an old country road; the shackled men, unable to flee, had been swiftly caught and hanged. Two years later, at a dance for colored folk held outside of town, a white patrol had descended with guns and torches, killing one slave and wounding several others. From other states came frightening, sickening stories of vicious slaveowners beating or killing slaves and slaves rising up in murderous revolt. Recently Elizabeth had confided to Frances that it would be a relief to leave Kentucky for Illinois so that she need no longer witness slaves being marched in chains through Lexington on their way to the auction block, nor would she be pricked by guilt whenever she was waited on by servants who had no choice but to serve her.
Frances understood why moving to a free state would be a great relief for Elizabeth, if a small comfort to compensate for the distance from home and the absence of family. In a way, Frances envied Elizabeth that liberty to not witness slavery at close hand, even if, as she took over her sister’s place as the eldest at home, she would remain ever mindful that slavery continued to cause tremendous suffering. Moreover, as disagreements within their family and community grew more heated, and as violence broke out more frequently wherever slavery abided, it seemed impossible to hope that free states could remain untouched by the conflict forever.
Frances slept restlessly, troubled by thoughts that Mary’s questions had provoked and by bittersweet anticipation of Elizabeth’s nuptials. Upon waking, she resolved to put aside gloomy reflections for her elder sister’s sake. Mary queried her no more about slavery that day or the next, and neither she nor Betsey nor Sally spoke a word about the runaway or the curious mark carved into the old fencepost. Sewing with renewed determination, Frances finished the headpiece and veil with hours to spare before the family departed for Walnut Hill on February 14.
Elizabeth was a radiant bride, Ninian a most handsome and gallant groom. The wedding ceremony was poignant and joyful, and the reception Aunt Eliza had masterfully put together was merry, full of laughter and warmth. Frances hoped with all her heart that Elizabeth and Ninian would carry the love so fulsomely
shared that day in their hearts for the rest of their lives.
Later that night, as the newlyweds bade their guests good-night and farewell, Elizabeth shared a few private words and an embrace with each of her sisters. To Frances she said—clasping her hands, eyes shining—that she prayed Frances would soon know the bliss and joyful anticipation she herself felt at that moment. “And if you can’t find a worthy gentleman here,” she added, smiling, “you’ll have to come to us in Illinois. I’ve no doubt Ninian has many friends who would be honored to take a Todd sister as a bride.”
“Be sure to save the most handsome one for me,” Frances said lightly, although her heart trembled a bit at the thought of marrying anyone anytime soon. She would turn sixteen on her birthday three weeks thence, and crowded though some might call it, she was not ready to leave home quite yet.
Six weeks after the wedding, Ma gave birth to a son she and Papa named David. As soon as Ma recovered from her ordeal, she redoubled her efforts to convince Papa to move. He soon acquiesced, and in May he purchased a grand home only two blocks away on West Main Street, a large, double brick residence with a wide center hall, four chimneys, and numerous rooms with high ceilings, tall windows, and elegant, tasteful architectural embellishments. Large formal flower gardens surrounded the house, a small conservatory stood along the left side, and stables and slave quarters were a discreet distance away behind the house. Elkhorn Creek wound through the property, promising relaxing strolls along its banks and hours of play and exploration for the children.
The new house, a former inn, was wonderfully spacious, large enough to accommodate them all, even with the new baby. Thus it came as a surprise to all the Todd sisters when, in late summer, Ma announced that Mary would be enrolled in boarding school in the fall.
Madame Mentelle’s Ladies’ Academy was only one and a half miles down the Richmond Pike, quite near Mr. Clay’s Ashland estate, but the proximity only made the arrangement more curious. Most of the academy’s Lexington girls attended as day pupils, but not Mary. Every Monday morning, Nelson would drive her in the carriage to the school, where she would reside in the dormitory with girls from distant farms and towns until he brought her home again on Friday afternoon.
If Mary was displeased with the arrangement, or if she sensed that she was being removed for any reason other than to further her education, she never admitted it aloud. She was bright, intellectually curious, and sociable, and she soon emerged as one of the brightest and most popular students at the school.
Frances envied Mary her education, but not her living arrangements. Although on her weekend visits home Mary described Madame Mentelle’s school as a kind of heaven on earth for clever girls, Frances wondered how she felt to be sent away when the move to a larger house plus Elizabeth’s departure had made room enough for all. Even if, for the sake of argument, Frances conceded that someone had to leave, shouldn’t cousin Betsey have returned to her own family before Mary was sent away?
Mary was too proud, so Frances would not ask her, but she could not help wondering how her sister endured it, knowing she was the one child for whom there was not enough room.
7
August 1875
Ann
In Elizabeth’s well-ordered kitchen, Ann instructed the cook to prepare a pot of the ginger and raspberry leaf tea her sister insisted upon drinking and to set a few slices of lemon cake on a plate in hopes of tempting her appetite. Elizabeth had lost weight since her surgery, but in recent days she had been resting well and eating better, and color was returning to her wan cheeks. Her new physician assured the family that she would be restored to full health within a few weeks, but Ann did not trust the household servants to care for their mistress as assiduously as a sister would. Thus, every day for the past three weeks, after seeing her husband and eldest son off to work and Clara, Allen, and Minnie off to school, she had come to the gracious Edwards residence to watch over her eldest sister as she recuperated. Had Elizabeth not done as much for Ann during her own travails of the body and spirit?
When the tray was prepared, Ann carried it outside to the summer porch, where Elizabeth reclined on the chaise lounge, a gardening book momentarily forgotten on the cushion beside her, although she still marked her place with a finger.
“I promised Ninian you would eat something midmorning to make up for the breakfast you neglected,” Ann said, mildly scolding, as she set the tray on the table beside her sister. “Don’t make a liar of me.”
Elizabeth smiled as she pushed herself up to a seated position, and Ann leapt forward to prop her up with pillows. “How are you feeling?” she asked, even though Elizabeth had sighed wearily not one hour before that she was tired of the question. How thankful the sisters were that Elizabeth had heeded Frances’s advice and obtained a second opinion about the pains that were allegedly a figment of her imagination.
How shocked and frightened they all had been when Elizabeth’s new doctor acknowledged that he had discovered growths in her womb, and how tremendously relieved they were when, after a second examination, the doctor assured them that the growths were neither cancerous nor likely to become so. He would have been inclined to leave them alone except for the pain, bleeding, and pressure on the bladder they caused. Privately, Frances had told Ann that she expected him to recommend a hysterectomy, which had become a considerably safer but no less drastic operation since it had been first attempted in America about thirty years before. To Frances’s surprise, he instead proposed that he remove only the fibroids, surgically detaching them and leaving the womb otherwise intact. With the aid of chloroform, he promised, Elizabeth would sleep peacefully through the entire operation. If the relatively new procedure proved to have failed, she likely would have to endure a hysterectomy after all, but thus far all indications were that it had succeeded beyond expectations. Now all that remained was for her to heal and regain her strength.
“I’m feeling better than ever,” she said as she reached for the teapot. Ann beat her to it and poured her a cup, which her sister accepted with a smile. “The pain of the surgery has passed, my original symptoms are gone, and every day I feel stronger. I think tomorrow I may work in the garden—”
“You may go for a brief stroll in the garden,” Ann interrupted, “but work is out of the question. Not until the bleeding has stopped entirely.”
“Yes, nurse,” Elizabeth replied meekly, but when she sipped her tea, her eyes shone with amusement as she met Ann’s gaze over the rim of her cup. Her good spirits were very reassuring, something their other sisters would want to know, which meant an evening of letter-writing for Ann. She need not write to Frances, of course, for she planned to stop by later that afternoon and would see for herself how well their eldest sister was faring. As for Mary, Frances saw no need to break their mutual silence to inform her of Elizabeth’s steady recovery from an affliction about which Mary knew nothing. Elizabeth would not want her to do so, and Robert would probably object on the grounds that the news of her sister’s infirmity would upset his mother. Ann reminded herself to warn Emilie not to mention Elizabeth’s condition in her letters, but perhaps caution was unwarranted; the last Ann had heard, Emilie had written twice or thrice to Mary at Bellevue but had not received a single word in reply.
“Has the mail arrived yet?” asked Elizabeth, as if she had read Ann’s thoughts. “I haven’t heard from Julia in more than a fortnight.”
“I’ll check,” said Ann, rising. “I wouldn’t worry. You’ve said yourself that letters take an age to travel all the way from Buenos Aires. Several letters are undoubtedly on their way to you at this very moment.”
She returned inside and passed through the house to the foyer. The morning post had arrived only moments before, and Ann found the housekeeper arranging the letters on a slim silver tray to carry out to her mistress. Ann completed the errand herself, pausing just inside the back door to leaf through the envelopes. There were three—none from Julia, sadly, nor did Ann recognize the other addresses.
“Perhaps I should send a telegram, just to be sure,” murmured Elizabeth, thinking aloud as she opened the first envelope. “But the expense . . .” Her voice trailed off as she unfolded a single page and began to read. Her brow furrowed in puzzlement, and then she frowned, and by the time she reached the bottom of the page, she was shaking her head.
“What is it?” prompted Ann, impatient. “What’s wrong?”
Sighing, Elizabeth held out the letter. “My words will not do it justice.”
CHICAGO LEGAL NEWS COMPANY
151 & 153 Fifth Ave.
Chicago, July 30, 1875
Mrs. Edwards.
Dear Madam:
I have just returned from a visit to your dear sister, Mrs. Lincoln. She desires me to write to you asking you to come up and visit her and expresses a wish to return with you to Springfield. She feels her incarceration most terribly and desires to get out from behind the grates and bars. I cannot feel that it is necessary to keep her thus restrained. Perhaps I do not look at the matter rightly, but let this be my excuse—I love her most tenderly and feel sorry to see one heartache added to her already overburdened soul.
She has always spoken most tenderly of you and I do believe it would do her good to meet you and receive a sister’s loving tenderness.
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