by Mercy Levy
“This was not how it was supposed to be, Emily.” Joshua said in a harsh whisper. “I have nothing for you, now.” He motioned at the destruction all around him. “You’d be better off going back to New York, and no one will blame you for it.” I wanted to give you everything, and now… He shrugged his shoulders and turned away from her. Emily seethed at his dismissal. She grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.
“See here, Captain Prentis.” Emily struggled to open the little drawstring purse on her wrist. “You wait just one moment before you throw away everything you want or need or love.” She gave up on the purse and looked straight into his eyes. “Don’t you dare give up, do you hear me?” She picked her way out of the glass and fabric and exited the store, stopping to ask a bystander a question before pushing her way back out through the crowd.
Celia and Joshua began to pick up the cloth and clear away the mess. Soon Millie joined them and the three set to work in earnest. Joshua was too unhappy to notice that Emily had not returned by the time the fabric was all piled in the storage room and Celia and Millie were sweeping up glass. Just as the shop began to look useable again, Livingston stormed through the door and confronted Joshua waving a paper in his face.
“Just how did you manage to come up with this money?” He demanded of Joshua. He was red-faced and spittle hit Joshua in the face as Gregory raged at him.
“What money?” Joshua asked. Livingston shoved the paper in his face. It was a bank statement, a receipt of payment in full. “Gregory, I have no idea where this came from.” Joshua admitted. Livingston sniffed derisively.
“I don’t believe you.” He smirked. “It had to be your money, the little girl who delivered this was here with you earlier.” Joshua looked around. Emily was still missing. Celia shrugged her shoulders. She hadn’t seen her since before they had begun clearing away the vandalism. As if on cue, Emily quietly walked in the hole where the front door had been. Livingston saw the recognition on Joshua’s face and spun around. “How did you get this?” He wildly brandished the bank note in her face.
“I bought it.” She answered quietly. Joshua looked at her in askance. “You are Gregory Livingston. Am I correct?” Emily queried. Gregory Livingston merely nodded, smoothing down his lapels and straightening his waistcoat. “Ah, good.” Emily replied. “I am so glad you are here.” Livingston raised an eyebrow skeptically. Emily smiled at Joshua and he returned it with a wan smile of his own.
“Mr. Livingston.” Emily said gently. “Please leave this shop, and never come back. You have no place here, and you never will. Leave now, lest I be forced to send for the authorities.” Joshua looked at Emily in surprise. Livingston got red in the face and began to sputter. Emily stepped out of the way and motioned him toward the door with an elegant and graceful gesture. Joshua barely managed to stifle a chuckle at his retreating back. He drew close to Emily and placed his hands on her shoulders.
“What have you been up to, Emily?” He asked quietly.
“I’m afraid I don’t have a wedding gift for you anymore.” Emily responded. “That is to say, if you were so inclined to ask me, I no longer have a gift for you. It was the loveliest gold pocket watch.” She sighed. He blinked slowly, thinking of what to say.
“I didn’t think you would say yes if I did ask now.” He replied. “What happened to the watch?” He asked, although he was certain of her reply.
“I sold it and paid the remaining debt on your land.” She stated casually. “Actually, I was a little short. It seems the manager of the bank had concerns regarding the timing of this action against you, and was desirous to assist an upstanding member of the community such as yourself.” Joshua gaped in shock. “You owe him a silk dress for his wife. He said her favorite color is blue.” Joshua laughed, in relief and surprise.
“You are… you are unlike anyone else, Miss Emily Bouchard.” Joshua laughed again, a grin spreading across his face and lighting up his eyes. “I don’t know what to say.” Emily returned his grin with a shy smile. He pulled her into a tight embrace. “How do I make this up to you?” He whispered to her staring into her eyes.
“You could ask me to marry you.” Emily offered drily. “Considering I just sold the only item of worth I owned and now I can’t leave.” Joshua chuckled and kissed her gently.
“I would be honored if you would be my wife, Emily.” He murmured.
“Fortunately for you, sir, I am inclined to agree.” Emily replied, blithely.
“Emily, you are my savior.” Joshua spoke softly, holding his mail-order-bride to be in a possessive embrace.
“I will settle for being your love, Captain Prentis.” Emily paused to control the tears of happiness that threatened to spill forth. “Remember, you’re saving me too.”
THE END
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Miss. Jenkins’s Unmasked Journey
Chapter 1
Running West
Freedom was all I ever wanted. Being a black slave in Virginia was no good for the heart of soul. Of course, being a slave was all I ever knew, so what did I know? I was a foolish young girl who worked in the main house of her slave owner, cooking, washing clothes, scrubbing floors, and other chores that seemed normal enough in the daylight. I could scrub the hardwood floors in the main house and make those floors shine so pretty, yes, sir, I sure could. My meals brought folks from all around and had the surrounding womenfolk mighty jealous. I sure didn’t like washing clothes—sheets were the worst, especially in the winter time, when the icy winds bit at your hands while you stood outside in the snow hanging sheets on a washing line. I also hated taking care of my slave owners bratty wife, who bossed me around all the time while she sat in her fancy parlor entertaining womenfolk who just didn’t seem much alive in their hearts. But I was a slave, and I did what I was told to do. Besides, my slave owner treated me decent enough. Not like a princess, but a human being, and that was enough for me.
The day came, though, when my slave owner died when I was twenty years old. A grand old funeral was held for the old man and after the funeral was over his son, Fredrick took over the main house and the tobacco fields. Fredrick was a cruel man who never liked me much. His mind was on money and power. Old Fredrick planted an idea in his mind that was he was going to be the next Governor of Virginia and then move on up the ladder and climb into the position of president; at least that’s how I saw the situation. Needless to say, he became a very hard and mean man who began working his slaves from sunlight to sundown. I was no exception. I was ordered out of the main house and forced to go tend to the tobacco fields. I didn’t mind. My folks worked the tobacco fields, and it was sure good being near them. Then came the day when a slave named Jones killed my pa for no reason at all. Jones was a hateful man who the other slaves stayed away from; I didn’t blame them. You can imagine how upset I was. I was even more upset when Jones managed to escape before Fredrick could find a rope and a tree.
“Why?” I cried to my mother standing in the middle of a hot tobacco field. Tears were streaming down my face and falling onto my pa’s worn-out body. Each tear felt consumed with pain and rage.
My mother put her arm around me and spoke in a sad voice. “Your pa is with Jesus now,” she said and looked down at my pa’s body and then raised her eyes up toward the clear blue sky resting over our heads. “We’ll see you soon,” she whispered.
Fredrick came busting through the fields wearing his fancy gray suit and came to a stop at my Pa’s body. He looked at me with hard eyes and then focused on my mother. “What happened here?” he demanded in a hard voice.
“Old Jones took himself a stick and beat my husband to death,” my mother told Fredrick in a calm voice. “You got eyes. Look at him.”
Fredrick lowered his eyes down to my Pa. He gritted his teeth. As mean and cruel as Fredrick was, he always had a liking for my Pa—and maybe that’s why Jones killed him? “Where is Jones?”
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p; “He ran off,” my mother told Fredrick. “Ain’t likely you’re gonna catch him.”
Fredrick kept his eyes on my Pa, and for a minute I actually thought I saw remorse and sorrow enter the man’s cold eyes. “I’m sorry,” he told my mother.
“I want to give my husband a decent sort of burial,” my mother told Fredrick.
Fredrick raised his eyes and focused on me. “I’ll see to it that Charlie gets a Christian burial,” he promised and then walked away yelling at the other slaves standing nearby: “Round up by the tobacco barn. We’re going for a hunt.” And with those words, Fredrick stormed away.
I wiped at my tears and pushed my black hair away from my face. Sure, I was a pretty young woman—one of the prettiest around people said—and there was a lot of slave men who wanted me as his wife, too. But my heart was for God. I wasn’t interested in marrying a man just for the sake of marrying. I wanted—desired—love and had faith that God would bring me into the arms of a man who would love me as a real husband; a husband whose heart loved God more than me. But as I stood in that hot tobacco field staring down at my Pa, I didn’t feel pretty or lady like at all. Instead, I felt a hideous, sour, poison grip my heart and rage consume my soul. “I’m going to kill him,” I promised my mother.
My mother shook her head. “Let God deal with the wicked,” she said and looked at the brown work dress I was wearing. “Wear your pretty blue dress to the funeral. Your pa always liked how you looked in that dress.”
I didn’t hear my mother’s voice. All I heard was the rage burning in my heart. I wiped at my tears with angry fists and then ran away sobbing madly. Four days later, after my Pa’s funeral, while my mother and I sat on the back porch of the slave cabin watching a heavy rainfall, a slave named Benjamin appeared in the rain, looked around with careful eyes and then hurried up onto the porch: “Jones went west to Nevada,” he whispered in a cautious voice. “Ain’t no justice ever coming to that man unless one of us goes and gets him.”
I felt a lightning bolt shoot through my heart. “I’ll go get him,” I said in a furious tone and stood up from an old rocking chair.
Benjamin glanced around and then studied the rain. “Okay, Miss Beth,” he whispered, “Old Man Calman will have a hay wagon outside his barn tonight. At midnight he’s moving the wagon south.” Benjamin looked at me. “Miss Beth, don’t be late,” he said and ran off into the rain.
I looked down at my mother. My mother didn’t say a word. Instead, she focused on the pouring rain and began praying. For the first time in my life, I didn’t pray. The rage burning in my heart was too hot.
<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>
I wasn’t thrilled being a runaway slave. But what choice did I have? If Fredrick wanted me he would send a man to track me down and bring me back to his tobacco fields. Deep inside my heart, though, I felt Fredrick understood my reasoning for running away; the man knew I had run away in order to track Jones down and kill him. Still, my nerves were tight and my heart tense as I rode into a hot, worn down, town on the back of a worn-down hay wagon. The trip west had been long and exhausting, and I was sure glad to have finally arrived in the town Jones. I was also sure glad many wonderful Christian people had formed a human road that paved my way into Nevada; each Christian man or woman had risked his or her life by helping me but did so anyway without any concern for personal safety. Sadly, I didn’t show much appreciation to those wonderful people. Instead, I focused on the rage burning inside of my heart. My mission was to kill Jones and that’s what my entire being was focused on doing and nothing more.
“Here you are, Miss Beth,” an old man told me pulling his hay wagon up to a livery stable. The old man was a simple ranch hand for a nearby Ranch. He had spotted me walking along a blistering hot back trail that, unknown to me, many folks traveled as a short cut into town instead of using the main dirt road. Fear gripped my heart when I saw the old man pull the hay wagon up to me. Who was he? What did he want? Was he a slave hunter? My fears were quickly destroyed when I saw the old man drop a kind and sincere smile down at me. I saw kindness and humility in his old green eyes.
I jumped off the back of the hay wagon, brushed some hay off the dark green dress I was wearing, quickly tied my long black hair into a tight ponytail, and hurried up to the old man. “Thank you, Joe,” I said in a grateful voice. I threw my right hand over my eyes and looked up into Joe’s wrinkled face. Joe smiled down at me. “You’re very kind.”
“Not at all,” Joe told me and smiled. The poor man was missing most of his teeth and wearing brown work clothes that were worn down to the ground, yet he seemed happy and at peace with himself and life. “Miss Beth, God has made us a pretty day to enjoy. But life and all of its troubles sure seem to get in the way all the prettiness around us.” Joe stared deep into my eyes. “I’m not the one to ask questions, but Miss Beth, your eyes are angrier than a bull having tobacco spit in its eye.”
“I have business,” I told Joe in a careful voice. I looked away from the livery stable and studied the roasting street. I spotted a small town that was slowly growing in size. I saw men on horseback hurrying to one location or another, a few women walking here or there, and a group of children standing outside a cozy general store holding fishing sticks in their hands. Each person I saw didn’t pay any mind to me at all, and the town itself didn’t seem overly concerned that a runaway slave had just arrived within its borders, either. I drew in a deep breath scented with hay and heat and looked up at Joe. “Are there a lot of black folk in this town?” I asked.
Joe rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand. “I don’t look at folk’s skin color, Miss. Beth. Jesus doesn’t either. Jesus looks at a person’s heart. When that wonderful Man died on the cross for us, He died for all people because God Himself made us all. Ain’t no man better than the next based on skin color. It’s the heart that matters.”
Joe’s words struck deep in my heart. Oh, he was such a kind and gentle man who brought such comfort to my angry heart. I wanted to run to him, wrap my arms around his old body, and cry until it hurt and confess my pain into his ears. Instead, I nodded my head. “Any folk with darker skin than you around?” I asked.
Joe sighed. “A few, Miss Beth,” he admitted. And then, to my shock, he reached into the front pocket of his work pants and pulled out money. “Now before you say a word Old Joe knows you ain’t got a dime to your name and that your belly is hungry. I heard is growling. You take this money and go get you a room at the hotel and a hot meal. Old Joe gets paid tomorrow.” Joe smiled. “I’ll come by the hotel tomorrow and pay for you a few more nights.”
“No,” I said and shook my head, “I can’t take your money.”
Joe climbed down from the wagon, grabbed my right hand, and planted the money in it with a gentle firmness that broke my heart. “Miss Beth, I ain’t one to argue,” he told me and then placed his kind, loving, smile into my eyes. “I got some chores to tend to. You go over to the hotel and tell Mrs. Maye that Old Joe sent you. Mrs. Maye will put you up in a good room and feed your belly.” I started to protest by Joe spun me around, patted the small of my back, and told me to get walking. So I did.
I walked away from the livery stable on tired legs and started exploring the stores and buildings lining the street with my exhausted eyes; I sure was tired. I spotted a doctor’s office, a building that sold and bought land. A dress shop, a Cattleman Association office (whatever that was), a bakery that sold fresh bread, the general store—an ugly saloon—and a few other stores that were neatly kept. When I spotted the hotel sitting at the end of town by itself, resting on a manicured lot that was fighting a losing battle against the blazing sun, I smiled out of exhaustion and not happiness. The hotel was a lovely blue two-story building that appeared clean, fresh and inviting. “Thank you, Lord,” I whispered and looked down at the money in my right hand. Guilt struck my heart. I bowed my head and stood very still.
“You gonna stand in that spot all day and bake in the sun?” a voice asked me. The voic
e seemed to come from a very faraway place.
“What?” I asked feeling as if two hands had suddenly shaken me out of a deep sleep. I slowly turned around and saw a handsome white man wearing dusty brown work clothes staring at me.
The man pointed at the hotel. “A bit cooler inside Mrs. Maye’s hotel,” the man told me, and then he simply smiled at me in a way that confused my angry heart.
“I guess,” I said and looked at the hotel.
“I saw you ride in with Old Joe,” the man told me.
Panic screamed in my heart. “I was…walking. That nice man…offered me a ride.”
“Yeah, Old Joe has a heart of gold,” the man smiled. “Say, if you’re too tired, I was just about to go inside the hotel and have me some lunch. I’ve been in town loading supplies since daybreak and I’m mighty hungry. I sure don’t like to eat alone, either.”
“You…want to eat lunch with me?” I asked in a confused voice. “You’re a…white man.”
The man looked down at his work clothes and then laughed. “The Lord has made me the way He felt fit to do so and made you the way He felt fit to do so. I guess you can call me white but this sun is sure making me turn a different color.”
“You know what I mean,” I said in a hurt voice. I felt like the man was laughing at me.
“The man stopped laughing, took the brown hat he was wearing off his head, revealing his short brown hair, and looked at me with honest eyes. “Mam, I see people as God makes them, in His image.”
I felt guilt strike my heart again. My heart sighed deeply. “I…yes,” was all I could manage to say.
“My name is Walton Maye.”
“Maye?” I asked.
Walton Maye smiled happily. “That’s right. My mother is Mrs. Maye, the lady who owns the hotel. My pa is Nathaniel Maye. He owns the local general store…and sure doesn’t mind using my back to unload and load supplies.” Walton rubbed the small of his back.