The Brightest Day: A Juneteenth Historical Romance Anthology

by Alexander, Kianna

  She thought back on her days as a youth, when she’d spent her every waking moment catering to the needs of her mistress. Her days had been an exhausting blur of cooking, washing dishes, and serving Mrs. Rhodes and her salty old acquaintances. Late night demands for cookies and tea had roused her from sleep many a night.

  The last decade of freedom had been the best time of her life. Yes, she’d worked hard, some days almost as hard as she had for the Widow Rhodes. But at least now, she benefited from her labor. No matter how tired she was at the end of the day, knowing that her life was her own made all her toil worth the effort. To her mind, Juneteenth was the most important holiday of the year, and one to be celebrated in grand fashion. After all, without one’s freedom, the other holidays seemed rather silly and pointless.

  Draining the last sip of lemonade, she stood and stretched, going to seek her bed. Tomorrow would be a busy day, and she needed the rest so she could have her wits about her. Securing her doors with the bolt, but leaving the windows open to allow the breeze in, she crawled in the one luxury she owned- her feather mattress topped bed.

  She settled beneath the covers, her heavy eyelids dipping closed.

  She pried them open to the surrounding darkness for a moment before they fell closed again.

  When she opened her eyes the second time, she gasped.

  The lamp on her dressing table was lit, casting a glow on the space near the foot of her bed. She felt a bit strange; out of sorts. I doused all the lamps...didn’t I?

  Another sight grabbed her attention, one much more attractive than the soft glow of the lamp.

  There, in the flickering light, stood Will.

  He was shirtless, revealing the muscled expanse of his chest and powerful arms. His dark locks hung loose, framing the handsome, angular face. His eyes were on her, and the heat in his gaze was so potent, it threatened to singe her nightgown.

  Her mouth hung aloft, her throat parched and dry. She wanted to speak, wanted to ask him why he was in her private space.

  But before she could speak, his large hands went to the leather belt circling the waist of his denims.

  Her words were swallowed as she gulped.

  He said nothing. A sensual smile lifted the corners of his mustached mouth.

  She could not look away from him, not if her very life depended on it. Her full and undivided attention belonged to him.

  His eyes never left hers as he loosened the belt, removed and discarded it.

  Her mouth was no longer dry; now, it watered.

  Glory. If ever the good Lord made a man finer than this one, she didn’t want to meet him; she didn’t think she could bear to look at him.

  His fingers worked open the placard of his pants, then slowly began to slip the pants down over the hard lines of his hips.

  Inch by inch, he revealed his bronzed skin to her.

  Her eyes landed squarely at the center of him, to the place where his hard thighs met his rippled torso. She could see the bulge there, it was impossible to miss. Warmth pooled in her core, her desire for him smoldering and burning like a fire in her belly.

  He worked the pants lower on his hips, then slid his hand around to his front.

  His deep voice filled the room. “Is this what you want to see, Rosie?”

  Entranced, she managed a single affirmative bob of her head.

  He reached inside, as if to free himself from the confining fabric.

  Her heart pounded in her ears, hot blood racing through her veins.

  Her vision swam, and she shut her eyes against the blurry images.

  Her eyes popped open again, and this time, she was met with only the darkness shrouding her cabin and the sounds of her own heavy, panting breaths.

  ~~~

  The mid-morning sun shone hot and bright over the launch point on the river, just a few miles from the center of town. Will and his men stood on the shore near the gangplank, greeting the passengers as they boarded the Lantern, as she sat docked at the river’s edge.

  In his best shirt, tie, and broadcloth slacks, Will smiled and shook hands with the folks approaching the ship, then introduced them to Bret, who would captain the vessel on its maiden voyage.

  In a lull between passengers, Bret elbowed him. “Looks like a good crowd today, Will.”

  He had to agree, so he nodded. “And a beautiful day for sailing. Let’s hope the river is as hospitable as the weather.”

  “Aye.” Bret straightened his tie, adjusted the tilt of his blue and gold captain’s hat atop his ruddy blond hair.

  He recalled last night’s moment of weakness. Bret, being his closest friend, knew of the nocturnal visits often paid to him by the specter of the woman he once loved. He’d lacked the courage to approach her back then, and now she’d been gone from the world for more than a decade. He decided not to mention it, in favor of keeping the mood light for today’s festivities.

  Not telling Starla of his love had been a foolish mistake, one he dearly regretted. He would not make the error again. Before the ship docked in Wilmington, he meant to reveal his feelings to Rosaline.

  He let his eyes scan the few folks milling about on shore. Most were faces he recognized but didn’t know by name. He often encountered the Goodman’s wealthy friends in town, but rarely spoke to any of them. Perhaps today he would get a chance to know them. For now, all he knew was that they represented the top tier of colored society in Cumberland County.

  The string trio, undoubtedly invited by Mrs. Goodman, boarded the ship with their instruments. Once they were safely on the deck, Will returned to watching the people on shore.

  His eyes drifted to a wagon parked on the flat land beneath an old oak, just as the female driver and her companion began to unload some crates from the back. When the shorter of the two women turned around, he saw that it was Rosaline.

  Bret saw her too, and remarked, “Ah. There’s the little filly who’s won your favor.”

  Ignoring his friend, he watched the graceful, small steps Rosaline took, cradling two small crates in her arms. She wore a summer weight blouse, snow white in color and accented in lace around her wrists and the hollow of her throat. The tan skirt had a ribbon tied about the waist and fell nearly to the ground, revealing just the tips of her slipper clad feet. Atop her short curls, she wore a straw bonnet hat, adorned with an array of pink and white blooms and tied beneath her chin with a wide strip of sheer fabric. The elaborate hat added a good half a foot to her small stature.

  He’d never seen her dressed this way, though he could tell it was her Sunday best. To his eyes, she was the most beautiful woman present. However, he would make sure to keep that thought to himself until the opportunity to tell her presented itself. If Marian Goodman got wind of it, she’d throw a fit.

  Finally Rosaline reached the gangplank, with the young girl close behind her. She offered a shy smile. “Good morning, Will. Captain, it’s lovely to see you.”

  Bret tipped his hat to her.

  Will placed a hand on her arm. “Good morning, Rosie. Could you use some assistance with your crates?”

  She nodded. “We could, thank you. Sarah and I were about to make a second trip to the wagon for the rest of them.”

  “Nonsense.” Will beckoned for two of the crewmen, and dispatched them to the wagon to gather the rest of Rosaline’s crates.

  When they returned, Will softly grasped Rosaline’s arm. “Allow me to assist you up, my dear.” He helped her mount the gangplank and climb it. Once she was safely up, he released her and stepped back down.

  Her eyes caught his for a moment as she softly uttered her thanks. Then she, the youngster, and the crewmen crossed the deck and disappeared inside the ship’s parlor.

  Will’s eyes followed her movements until she was out of sight. When he looked away, he saw his friend smirking at him. “What’s so funny now, Bret?”

  Bret elbowed him again. “Boy, Will. She’s got you at sixes and sevens.”

  He raised his hand to give Bret a quick s
wat against his head, but quickly put it down when he saw The Goodmans approaching. Fashionably late as always, the impeccably dressed older couple were slowly making their way to the gangplank. He straightened up and smiled, silently urging Bret to follow suit as he awaited them.

  Mr. Goodman stepped up, offering each of them a hearty handshake. Then, he grasped the lapels of his fancy soft brown suit, which looked much too hot for a summer day on the river. “Morning, you two. You’ve done a marvelous job on the ship, Will. She’s a beauty if ever I saw one.” Hearing his wife clear her throat, he quickly added, “Almost as lovely as my Marian.”

  A smile touched the lips of the old matriarch, dressed in a yellow silk gown that bared her arms and shoulders. “Why your sweet words flatter me, darling. Good morning, Will, Bret. I agree with my Chauncey. The Hope’s Lantern is a work of art, truly befitting my late grandmother’s name.”

  Will clasped her hand. “Thank you, Mrs. Goodman. That’s high praise, indeed.”

  She continued on, in the chatty way she was known for. “Did I ever tell you how I came up with the name for the ship, boys?”

  Both Will and Bret shook their heads.

  “While my family has always been free, my grandmother’s home on the Virginia/ Pennsylvania border was a station on the Road. According to the stories she told me as a girl, she left a lit lantern hanging near the trail if it was safe to stop there. Any captive in the area seeking a safe place for the night would look for ‘Hope’s Lantern.’”

  Will took in the tale, noting how proud Mrs. Goodman seemed to be of her family’s involvement in helping slaves escape. He found that interesting, since he knew her own attitude about former slaves seemed to swing between pity and disdain.

  Her face brightened as she completed the telling. The flirtatious smile, and her attention, were quite obviously directed at Bret.

  Bret squirmed under her gaze, looking as nervous as rabbit in a snare.

  Will held back a chuckle. “I’m so glad you’re pleased, Mr. and Mrs. Goodman. Welcome aboard, and do find me or one of my men if you should require anything during the voyage.”

  Marian nodded her understanding, her eyes still focused on Bret. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  Chauncey’s brow furrowed, and he grasped his wife’s arm. “Come now dear, let’s get on board so we can get underway.”

  With that said, he led his wife up the gangplank and onto the ship’s deck.

  This time Will elbowed Bret. “Looks like Mrs. Goodman’s got her eye on you. She was looking at you the way hungry dog looks at a steak.”

  Bret shuddered. “Stifle, Will. She’s married and old enough to be my mother.”

  He smiled, amused by the horrified look on his friend’s face. “You know I’m only teasing. Now let’s get on board and get this thing down the river.”

  “Yes, lets. And be sure and tell Marian I’m not allowed to leave my post at the helm.” Bret scurried up the plank.

  Will followed, chuckling.

  Once they’d made sure everyone was on board, and that all the provisions were in order, Will ordered the plank pulled up and the anchor raised. Then, using the long oars dedicated for that purpose, the crewmen pushed off from the shore, to the sounds of cheering from the passengers on board.

  With the vessel underway, the paddle wheel churning and pushing it downstream, Will moved into the parlor area. He spent a few moments making sure everyone was comfortable, then searched the room for Rosaline. When he saw her, standing near the table where her cake was displayed, he excused himself.

  ~~~

  Rosaline busied herself securing the top tier of her cinnamon spice cake. The cake, five tiers tall and well exceeding her own height when combined with the table height, was placed inside a protective wooden structure she’d had created just for that purpose. Dusting her hands a bit, she stepped down from the overturned crate that had been supplementing her height so she could reach the top. She stood back a bit to admire the tall, frosted beauty of her confection, when young Sarah tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Yes, Sarah, what is it?”

  Jabbing her finger in the air, the girl said, “It’s Mr. Pruett. He’s headed right for us.”

  She let her eyes move to where Sarah pointed. Sure enough, she saw the tall, handsome fellow striding toward her. She corrected her posture, adjusted her hat, and put on her best smile.

  He stepped into her space wearing a smile of his own. “Hello again, Rosie. I see you got your cake together. It’s mighty impressive.”

  She could feel the blush rising into her cheeks. No one else in town ever called her that nickname. Coming from his lips, it held a special, odd sort of appeal. “Thank you, Will. It was a lot of work but it turned out nicely, I think.”

  He gestured to the wooden crate surrounding the cake. “So, what’s this contraption?”

  “Oh, it’s a cake box. I had a friend of mine who’s a carpenter make it up for me, just for this voyage. Basically, it’s made to fit around my cake platter, with very little extra space. This little hinge here operates a door, which I can open and close to serve the cake, and the contraption keeps my cake level in case the ride should become a bit bumpy.”

  He grasped the brass handle then opened and closed the door. “How clever. I’ve never seen anything like it. Who came up with this idea?”

  “Why, I did.”

  “Ah. Beauty and intelligence. You’re a treasure indeed, Rosie.” And before she could say another word, he picked up her hand and brought it to his lips. Placing a brief kiss against the back of it, he then released it. With a smile and bow, he moved away until he faded back into the crowd of party-goers.

  Her skin tingled from the contact, and as she tried to gather her scattered focus, she heard Sarah giggling. She turned to her young assistant with a censuring look. At fifteen, Sarah was still young enough to believe in the romantic tales she read in cheap novels. But at twenty-seven, Rosaline knew better. Love and life were far from the fantasy those books portrayed. Here in reality, things were much more complex.

  “He’s so dashing.” Sarah’s brown eyes took on a dreamy look as she spoke the words.

  “That he is.” There was no sense in denying that truth.

  “You should court him. He likes you.”

  Rosaline chuckled. “It’s not that simple, Sarah dear.”

  Her eyes went wide with confusion. “Why not?”

  She sighed. Her doe eyed assistant was the picture of naivete. The girl was young, too young to know some of the horrors of bondage. Sarah had lived more of her life free than she had in captivity. How could she understand the soul crushing shame of being forced to breed, over and over, like a piece of cattle? The memories of those days were still fresh, and still stung like the lash.

  Sarah’s expression changed, and she tensed as if sensing the pain rising in Rosaline. “I’m sorry, Miss Rosaline. Mama says sometimes I get carried away, and say things I shouldn’t. Forgive me.”

  Taking a deep breath to fend off the emotions, Rosaline patted the girl’s shoulder. “It’s alright, Sarah. We’re done working for now, why don’t you run along and enjoy the ship for a bit.”

  With a nod, the young apprentice baker moved away, melting into the group of people positioned around the ship’s parlor.

  Left there, she wrestled with the painful memories resurfacing in her mind. When she’d been just a girl of thirteen, the night visits had begun. Her mistress, Pheobe Rhodes, had insisted she was old enough to breed, and sent bucks to the shack she shared with two other girls the same age. That first night, the man who took her innocence had looked stricken; even expressed regret, but he’d been given an order to carry out, so the deed was done anyhow.

  The other girls soon got the large bellies the mistress had hoped for, but Rosaline did not.

  Night after night, for seventeen long days, she’d been forced to couple with full grown men who were easily twice her size. But her courses came anyway, with the flow as heavy and
painful as she’d always endured. When she still didn’t get with child, the old woman who acted as a doctor of sorts to the slaves had declared her womb barren. The night visits had ceased after that, but Rosaline knew she would never forget those hellish nights.

  She dashed the tears springing to her eyes, not wanting to draw attention to herself. Her past was tragic, but she was not alone in that. She imagined scores of other women in bondage had been treated the same way. Now it was over, and there was nothing to be done about it.

  So she inhaled deeply, then blew the air out, and directed her eyes back toward the cake. It had turned out beautifully, and she hoped Mrs. Goodman would agree when the time came to slice it and distribute it to the revelers on board the ship. This particular cinnamon spice cake could be the most important one she’d ever made. If the Goodmans were pleased with it, and word got around to their wealthy free-born friends, she could sell enough baked goods to finally move her bakery into the vacant storefront she’d been eyeing.

  She checked the door on her cake contraption to be sure it was securely latched, then made her way across the room. She stepped out onto the deck, and the summer breeze threatened to lift the hat from her head. She steadied it with a hand and moved to the rail.

  It was a beautiful blue sky day, and the wispy white clouds did little to filter the bright sunlight. She looked down at the frothy surface of the river, being churned by the ship’s steam engine and paddle wheel as it sailed toward Wilmington. Towering pines and spruces along the bank scented the air with their sap, and she inhaled the rich fragrance. She leaned against the rail and closed her eyes, tilting her face up toward the warmth of the sun. A sense of contentment washed over her, and in that moment, she felt a silent assurance that things were just as they should be.