by Lynn Austin
His smug grin faltered. “They weren’t lies. You are the prettiest one,” he said, and for just a moment, it was as if a mask had come off. The cocky, self-assured man melted away and she saw the real Grady, underneath. He was telling the truth.
Kitty didn’t know what to make of that. She had no experience with men, no knowledge on which to base her decisions, only Albert’s warning to be careful—and a deep, inner fear of being hurt. Her parents had fallen in love and it had led to sorrow.
“I have to go,” she said. “Missy might need me.”Walking away from him took more effort than Kitty would have ever guessed, starved as she was for love and affection. But Albert said Grady was playing her for a fool, and she didn’t want any part of that.
Grady watched her go, flatly refusing to run after her and beg. From now on he would stay far away from her. Let her sit by herself and sketch, if that’s what she wanted. What did he care? But he had told himself the same thing countless times before, and each time he’d been drawn back to her like a horse galloping the last mile home.
He cared about what Kitty thought of him. She hadn’t been just like all the others to him, another gal to win, another heart to conquer. She was different. It bothered him that she drew back in fear every time he allowed his anger to leak out. And it seemed like every time he was with her, something always made him angry—ever since the first day they’d met and she’d drawn his picture. He knew that he kept scaring her away, and he hated to see himself in her reaction, to glimpse himself the way she saw him—angry, bitter, filled with hatred.
Something was going on in his heart that Grady didn’t understand at all, something he didn’t want to happen. Maybe he was afraid to get close, just like Delia said—but that was a good thing. He certainly wasn’t going to limit himself to only one girl for the rest of his life. The only reason he’d pursued Kitty as long as he had was because Massa Fuller hadn’t been covering as much territory as he used to cover. This was the longest either of them had ever courted one woman. Well, maybe Massa Fuller was ready to limit himself, but Grady sure wasn’t, even if Kitty was the prettiest gal around. He was glad that she had walked away before she touched something deep inside him.
So why did Grady feel such a loss at the thought of never seeing her again? Why did it hurt so much to watch her walk away? Was it just his pride, his desire to win Kitty’s heart as he’d won all the others? To make matters worse, he kept running into Kitty all the time. He wished Massa Fuller would go back to the plantation or to Beaufort and stay away from Charleston for good. Grady decided to ask him about it when they reached their hotel that night.
“We going back home to Beaufort soon, Massa?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, we’re leaving next week.”
Grady sighed. Good. He wouldn’t have to see Kitty anymore. He could forget all about her, and once she was out of sight, any feelings he had toward her would quickly fade.
“But we’ll be returning right after the election,” Massa Fuller added.
“Returning to Charleston? When’s that election, Massa?”
“In November.” Fuller smiled slightly. “I’ve asked Claire Goodman to be my wife. We’re getting married this Christmas.”
The announcement upset Grady, but he didn’t know why. “That’s wonderful, Massa Fuller,” he said with a phony grin. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Grady watched Massa Fuller disappear into the Charleston Hotel, then drove the carriage around the block to the livery stable for the night. Did a chambermaid move to a new plantation with her mistress when she got married? He hoped not. He hoped so.
Grady wanted to punch somebody.
Chapter Eleven
Charleston, South Carolina December 1860
Grady pulled the horses to a halt in front of Institute Hall in downtown Charleston. He and Massa Fuller were back in the city again, staying at the Charleston Hotel after a short trip home to Beaufort. Every day, for more than a month, Grady had been waiting outside the hall while Massa attended meetings all day, then he’d drive Massa to see Missy Claire nearly every night. From what Grady had overheard, he knew that Massa thought the wrong man, Abraham Lincoln, had just been elected president. The white men were so angry about it that they’d been meeting here at Institute Hall ever since the election.
“Can I ask you a question, Massa Fuller?” Grady said as he opened the carriage door for him. “I hear everybody talking about ‘secession,’ and I’m wondering what that means.”
Massa Fuller frowned. “The United States began as a union of free, independent states,” he said. “We’re deciding whether or not South Carolina should leave that union—secede from it—now that the federal government no longer represents our interests. If secession passes, and I pray that it will, South Carolina will be an independent commonwealth once again.” Massa’s frown deepened, but Grady didn’t think he was mad at him for asking; it was the subject itself that seemed to anger him. Another white man, who had stepped from his own carriage at the same time as Fuller, joined the conversation.
“It’s everyone’s prayer, Roger. The Union has fallen into the hands of northern fanatics. It’s no longer a partnership. When the majority starts oppressing the minority, it’s time to fight back.”
“Hear! Hear!” a third man added.
Grady wondered if they would feel the same way if the Negro minority decided to fight back against their oppressors.
“By the way, Roger, congratulations on your engagement,” the first man said. He pumped Massa Fuller’s hand vigorously.
“My wife and I are looking forward to your wedding next week.”
“I daresay I’m looking forward to it, too,” Fuller replied, laughing. Grady watched them all disappear into the building. He would park the carriage somewhere and settle back for another long day of waiting, then another long evening at the Goodmans’ house, trying to avoid Kitty. It wasn’t difficult to do. With Missy Claire’s wedding to prepare for, neither Kitty nor any of the other slaves had a free moment to spare.
All of Charleston seemed to be in an uproar over secession, but Grady knew that the fuss was really about slavery. Above all else, Massa and the other planters would fight for the right to keep their slaves. There was even talk of war. Grady had driven Massa Fuller to a haberdasher’s shop and watched through the front window as a tailor measured him for a new uniform. While they’d been home in Beaufort, Massa Fuller had been made a captain in the Beaufort Volunteer Artillery.
Grady was waiting for his master outside the hall a few days later, when several men burst through the doors, shouting, “Freedom! Secession has passed!” Within minutes the excitement spread throughout downtown Charleston. Shops closed, church bells rang, and by the time Massa Fuller emerged with the other men, all wreathed in smiles, artillery had begun to boom, rattling windows all over the city.
“What’s going on, Massa?” Grady asked. “There a war starting?”
“We’ve signed the Ordinance of Secession. South Carolina has become the first state ever to secede from the Union.”
Grady forced a smile and said, “That’s good news, Massa. That’s what you been wanting, ain’t it?”
“Yes, it certainly is.”
“Where’d you like me to take you now?” he asked as he loosened the reins from the hitching post.
“Let’s stop at that haberdasher’s and see if my uniform is ready.”
“I seen an awful lot of people putting on uniforms lately. There gonna be a war?”
“I doubt it. We joined the Union voluntarily, and we’re entitled to leave it voluntarily. But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Our state’s militia laws require all men my age to serve for three months every year. As soon as I return to Beaufort, my artillery unit is going to begin drilling.” Massa seemed too excited to stand still, much less climb into the carriage for the slow drive through the clogged streets.
“Looks like them shops is all closing early today to celebra
te,” Grady said as he surveyed the bustling streets around Institute Hall. “We better be hurrying to that tailor shop before it closes, too.”
“I’m getting married tomorrow!” Fuller shouted above the clanging bells of the neighboring church. “From now on Claire and I will celebrate our anniversary and our independence at the same time.”
* * *
Grady rose very early the next morning to decorate the carriage with holly and evergreen boughs the way Massa wanted. He braided ribbons in the horses’ manes and tails, and fixed feather plumes to their harnesses. Then he drove a very nervous-looking Massa and his two sons to the church. Missy Claire arrived in her carriage a short time later, and Grady saw Kitty, briefly, as she helped her mistress into the church. But he quickly lost sight of her as hundreds of guests began arriving in their carriages. He didn’t get to see the wedding as he waited outside the church with the other drivers.
When it was over, Massa came down the steps with Missy Claire on his arm. Church bells rang, and guests showered the couple with rice as Grady helped them into the carriage for the drive back to Missy Claire’s house. He would have to remember not to call her Missy Claire anymore. She was Missus Fuller now.
The December day turned out to be sunny and unusually warm, so while the white folks gathered for a celebration in the Goodmans’ second-floor ballroom, Grady and all the guests’ drivers and slaves were treated to a much smaller party outside in the yard. The jib windows of the Big House had been flung open, and some of the slaves danced to the lively music that drifted down from the wedding reception. Grady didn’t see any gals his age that he wanted to dance with. And he didn’t have to worry about bumping into Kitty, since the Goodmans’ slaves were busy cooking and serving food to hundreds of people.
As Grady wandered restlessly around the yard later that afternoon, the Negro musicians came outside for a break. One of them laid his fiddle and bow on a bench right in front of Grady, then left to fill a plate with food. Grady picked up the instrument. The heft and balance of it felt immediately familiar, and it stirred a longing in him that he hadn’t known was there. Without thinking, he placed the fiddle beneath his chin—then quickly lowered it again. How many years had it been since he’d played? At least three. Unable to resist, he lifted it into place again, and drew the bow across the strings. The sound vibrated pleasantly through him. He smiled without realizing it and played a quick scale.
The instrument was out of tune, probably from all the lively playing its owner had done. Grady reached for the tuning pegs, turning them to adjust the strings, testing the pitches with the bow until the notes sounded in tune. Then he played a simple melody, his fingers remembering exactly where to go, how firmly to press down. It was as if he had played mere days ago, not years.
“You got good pitch,” a voice behind him said. “You play a lot?”
Grady turned and saw the man who owned the fiddle. “I used to. I ain’t played in a long time.” He offered the instrument back to him but the man shook his head, balancing a plate and a glass of cider in his hands.
“No, go ahead, let’s hear you play something else.”
“I don’t remember how to no more,” Grady mumbled.
“You tuned up them strings like you still remembered.”
Grady hesitated. Part of him longed to play, to allow the music to flow through him again like a healing balm, the way it had when he’d first learned from Beau in New Orleans. But another part of him couldn’t forget what he’d been forced to do in the years that had followed. He never wanted to play again.
“No, thanks,” he mumbled. He laid the fiddle down on the bench where he’d found it.
“Ever hear this tune?” the fiddler asked as he set down his plate. He lifted the instrument and played a slow, beautiful tune that Grady had never heard before. Without realizing it, he studied where the man placed his fingers, learning the tune as if he intended to play it himself. By the third verse, Grady had memorized it. He slowly became aware that the conversations all around him had quieted as the other slaves listened, too.
“You know that song?” the man asked when he finished. Grady shook his head. “It’s called ‘Amazing Grace’ but I call it the slave trader’s song. Man who wrote it was captain of a slave ship.”
Grady tensed. His face must have shown his revulsion because the man touched his arm with the bow, as if to soothe him.
“No, no. He gave up the slaving business when he found Jesus,” the fiddler explained with a grin. “He wrote that song afterwards. Said that Jesus had saved him and forgiven him and gave him a brand-new life. The last verse says we’re gonna have ten thousand years to sing praises to Jesus in heaven. I like to think I’ll be playing my fiddle up there, too, don’t you?”
“I got nothing to do with Jesus,” Grady said coldly. He strode off to find another glass of cider.
Kitty came outside through the servants’ door in time to see Grady stride away from one of the musicians, an angry look on his face. Even on this happy occasion, he seemed unable to relax and have fun. She shook her head and hurried over to the table of food, determined to eat and enjoy herself for a few moments. She had just filled her plate and was looking for a place to sit, when she heard Grady’s voice behind her.
“I’m surprised your missy let you come to the party.”
Kitty glanced up at him, then quickly looked away. It was so hard to see Grady and not recall what it had been like to be kissed by him. So hard not to wish he would kiss her again. “I been very busy,” she said. “This is the biggest day of Missy’s life. She’s needing me more than ever.”
“I figured you’d defend her.”
Kitty let his comment go by. She found a place to sit on an empty bench and began eating. There was room for Grady to sit beside her, but he remained standing. “Ain’t you gonna eat something?” she asked.
“I already did.” He shifted nervously in place, stuffing his hands into his pockets, then pulling them out a moment later. “Massa said we’re going back to Beaufort real soon,” he finally said. “You coming, too?”
“Yes. Missy’s bringing me with her.”
“You ain’t looking very happy about it. What’s wrong?”
Kitty forced a smile. If Grady noticed that she was unhappy, then Missy Claire would notice, too. She mustn’t be gloomy. “Nothing’s wrong. I never been away from home before, that’s all. Going to live in a new house and a new town is a little scary. Only places I ever lived is on Great Oak Plantation or here in Charleston.”
“You got family you leaving behind?”
“No. I got lots of friends, like Mammy Bertha and Cook and Bessie, but I ain’t got no family. What’s it like where you and your massa live?”
“I don’t know. I never been allowed inside the plantation house. Or the town house in Beaufort, either.” His anger flared momentarily, but Kitty saw him carefully bank it. “I don’t notice colors and things like you always do,” he said with a shrug. “But it’s quiet and peaceful there. Lots of pretty things for you to draw, I guess. The town of Beaufort ain’t nearly as big and noisy as Charleston. I’ll be glad to be gone from here.”
He glanced up at the open windows as the musicians started playing again in the upstairs ballroom. The music seemed to make Grady uneasy for some reason.
“Are the other slaves nice?” Kitty asked.
“Huh?”
“The other slaves where your massa lives. Are they nice?”
“I guess so.”
Kitty ate a bite of pork, wondering how many girlfriends Grady had back home and if they would get along with her. She knew it would make him mad if she asked about other girls her age. “Well, at least I’ll know one person there,” she said.
“Yeah. Your missy.”
She knew by his bitter tone that he was still angry with her. But before she could reply, one of the parlormaids came to the back door, calling to her.
“Kitty! Missy Claire’s wanting you to come right away.”
/> Kitty set her half-finished plate aside and hurried to obey.
“See you later,” Grady mumbled.
* * *
Beaufort, South Carolina
December 1860
Delia watched in alarm as Massa Fuller’s carriage drew to a halt in front of the town house. “Better come quick,” she shouted to all the other slaves. “Massa’s come home early, and he brought his new bride.” She didn’t know which to do first: rush outside and greet her new missus, hurry into the front parlor to pull the dust sheets off the furniture, or run upstairs and finish getting the bedrooms ready. She decided on the parlor, telling Martin to go greet them and Minnie to hurry upstairs.
Massa Fuller led his new bride into the room just as Delia stuffed the last sheet out of sight. She had to hide her shock at how young the girl was. She could be Massa’s daughter, not his wife. White folks certainly were peculiar.
“Claire darling, this is Delia,” Massa Fuller said. “She was my mammy when I was small, and now she and Martin supervise the house slaves for me, both here in town and out at the plantation.”
Delia kept her eyes lowered in respect. “Welcome, Missus Fuller. We real happy to have you here. I’m sorry if we ain’t quite ready, but we ain’t expecting y’all until next week.”
“I know,” Massa said, “but there have been some unexpected developments in Charleston. We’re on military alert.”
“That don’t sound good, Massa. And it look like you wearing a new uniform, too. We starting a war or something?”
“Let’s hope not. We ordered all U.S. troops to leave South Carolina after we seceded, but they’ve refused to surrender Fort Sumter in Charleston harbor. I’ve returned to my command with the Beaufort Artillery just in case there’s a showdown.”
Delia shook her head in sympathy. “That sure ain’t a very nice way to celebrate your wedding, Massa.”
“Claire understands, don’t you, dear,” he said, smiling at her. She quickly returned his smile. But Delia noticed that Missus Fuller had been studying the room, eyeing all of Massa’s fine furniture and paintings as if adding up how much they were all worth. She was quite pretty for a white girl, but it was an icy beauty, like a clear, crisp winter day, without the softness or warmth of spring. Massa’s first wife had been much the same.