"Never go without for my benefit again."
She didn't like being dictated to, not even by someone who thought they had her best interests at heart. "You wouldn't have recovered as quickly if I hadn't gone without. You were certainly in no position to write me a bank draft."
"But I am now."
"That's hardly the issue, is it?"
"It is as far as I'm concerned. How do you support yourself?"
"I do, that's all you need be concerned with."
"Obviously it isn't. You don't have enough food in this house to keep crawdads alive!"
"I can hardly do the work I do without some sacrifice."
"I understand that, but never sacrifice yourself. You're no good to anyone half starved."
She took immediate offense. "I am not half starved."
"When was the last time you had a full meal?"
She didn't answer. He hadn't raised his voice during any part of the confrontation, but Hester felt as if they were shouting loud enough to be heard in Ohio.
"Well?" he asked, still waiting for her to answer. From her continued silence, he knew it had probably been some days ago. "Get a fork and eat all of that."
A tight-lipped Hester complied, then came back and took her seat.
Galen observed the mutinous set of her jaw. She was eating, grudgingly, but he didn't pay her manner much mind. Instead he found himself lingering over the features of her face. God she was beautiful. Even with his limited vision, he had no difficulty discerning that fact. Her skin looked like the gift of an African night goddess. Dark with the true colors of her ancestry, the sable highlights beneath added to the luster of a face as clear as precious obsidian. The jet-diamond eyes sat beneath lashes so long they brushed her cheeks. He knew it would only be a matter of time before he succumbed to the urge to touch her. He shook himself. For all his musing, he had no business thinking along those lines; he would be leaving Whittaker as soon as it could be arranged, and once gone would probably never see her again. He was surprised at how disturbing those thoughts left him feeling. "When you're in town today, do you think you can send a wire for me?"
"Yes." Hester was still smarting from his lecturing. "Bea may stop in later, she wants to remove those threads."
He nodded, then asked very seriously, "Hester, how do you support yourself?"
Hester would have preferred her finances, or lack thereof, not be a topic for discussion, but she knew he would not let the subject rest until he received a satisfactory answer. "I write antislavery tracts for an English publisher. I offer piano lessons to the children in the area. I have a bit of a pension from my aunt and father. And I sell apples," she explained.
"That's it?"
Hester cut him a look which instantly made him contrite. "I'm sorry," he said genuinely. "I'm prying I know, but it's only because I'm concerned."
"I'm doing fine, Galen. Foster has some income. Should the purse become truly empty, I can always sell some of the land. I'd hate to, but even I know I must eat."
Her frank eyes held his own. Galen experienced the overwhelming urge to protect her, but knew the prideful little Indigo would toss him out on his ear should he even propose to help her escape the pinch of poverty. He didn't know why he hadn't figured out her strained position sooner; her clothing stated her need quite plainly. Her garments were always clean and pressed, but the cuffs at her wrists and the hems of her skirts were frayed with age. He knew she practiced Free Produce and he thought the vow she'd taken to be a noble one, however, the women of his circle back home would have reduced such clothing to polishing rags long ago; Hester carried herself as if the old gowns were made of woven gold.
"Galen."
He shook himself free of his musings. "I'm sorry Indigo, did you ask something?"
Once again the name rolled over Hester like the brushing of a cloud. She struggled a moment to remember what she'd been about to say. "Yes. My plate is clean, may I be excused now?"
He raised an eyebrow at her sarcastic little dig and the light shining in her dark eyes. He decided her wit was just one more of her attractive attributes. He smiled. "Yes, petite, you may be excused."
Hester spent most of the day in Ann Arbor, the town situated only a few miles west. She stopped off at the post office only to be told the draft she'd hoped to receive from her English publisher had not arrived. She swallowed her disappointment, then crossed the street to post Galen's wire. His note seemed innocent enough—a message alluded to the ordering of lumber and nails— but Hester assumed it was a code. Afterwards, Hester stopped by Kate Bell's boarding house for lunch, after which she sat a spell to gossip with the women in Kate's back room parlor. Most of the gossip centered around Bethany Ann Lovejoy, the seventeen-year-old daughter of Vigilance Committee member William Lovejoy. Bethany Ann had run away from home rather than marry her father's hand-picked groom, a middle-aged business associate named John Royce. That she had disappeared on the night before the wedding had tongues wagging as far east as Detroit. No one had heard a word from her since. Lovejoy had spent a fortune on the construction of one of the largest and grandest homes in the county for the newlyweds to reside in, but with Bethany Ann's flight, it sat empty.
The dusk of late afternoon had already fallen by the time Hester completed the trek home. She put the buggy in the barn, then went into the house. On the kitchen table she found a note left by Bea indicating the threads had been removed from Galen's side. Beside the note lay a smoked ham Bea had dropped off courtesy of Branton Hubble, along with two rashes of bacon. Hester silently offered thanks for the generosity of her neighbors, then went to call up the stairs after Galen. When she received no reply, she assumed he was sleeping. She decided to start dinner, then go up and check on him.
Carefully balancing the tray holding Galen's meal, Hester knocked lightly upon the attic room's door and entered when he called. She found him lounging in her grandfather's big black porcelain bathing tub. The sight of his bare chest rising golden above the water threw her into such an embarrassed disarray, she instantly spun her back on him. "I thought you said come in!" she gasped.
Galen couldn't help smiling at her scandalized manner, but said truthfully, "I'm the one who should apologize. This warm water had me so lulled I forgot where I was. I answered your knock without thought."
"Are you saying you commonly invite females into your bath?"
"At one time in my life, it was not uncommon for me to invite females to share my bath."
Hester's eyes widened.
Galen chuckled inwardly, wishing he could see the look on her face. He guessed he'd shocked her silly with his truthful revelation, even if that had not been his intent. He told himself he should remember just how sheltered a life she probably led.
Hester was indeed shocked—both by finding him in the tub, and by the startling admission. She knew men were allowed to conduct their lives in ways far outside the strict boundaries governing female behavior, but would a woman of good reputation cavort with a man in a tub? She wondered what kind of man Galen really was and what social circles he traveled in when he was not the Black Daniel. Still standing with her back to him, she said, "I'll just leave the tray here by the door and return for it later."
His soft voice stayed her. "Was it my imagination or did I see two settings on that tray?"
The room seemed to grow very warm, and Hester looked down guiltily at the two plates and two sets of silver, then said, "I—thought you might enjoy some company. You've been here all alone today and—"
"I would enjoy that," he replied in a tone so gentle it set her pulses to beating.
Hester stammered. "Then I'll—step out—so you may—"
"No need for you to leave. If you'll just stand as you are—"
The sound of sloshing water filled the room. Hester momentarily forgot his caution and instinctively turned to the sounds. Seeing him about to emerge from the tub she gasped again, and spun back.
His soft laugh behind her only increased her disma
y. He chuckled, "I told you to stand still."
She countered in her own defense, "I'd no idea you were—"
The sloshing began again and she froze, rooted like a tree. It ceased only a moment later, followed by the sounds of him quietly moving around behind her. A big, standing oak mirror stood to Hester's right. She unsuccessfully fought the unladylike urge to peek at what it might reflect across the room. In the glass he stood with his back to her, drying himself with a flannel drying sheet. Her eyes roamed slowly over the golden muscles rippling across his back and shoulders, then lower over the powerful thighs, hips, and legs. Shocking herself at this brazen breach of good manners, she raised her eyes and her breathing stopped upon finding him watching her in turn. Scandalized, she hastily looked away.
Galen said amusedly, "The curiosity is only natural, Indigo," though he wondered what to do with the natural rise in his manhood brought on by her innocent voyeurism. "Maybe someday, you'll offer me the opportunity to indulge my own curiosity . . ."
His voice was filled with heat, causing Hester to sway. She lacked the experience to even begin forming a reply to such an intimate request.
She felt relieved when he finally said, "You may turn around now."
He'd donned a simple shirt and trousers, but the image of him standing nude had burned itself into Hester's memory. "Maybe we should eat downstairs," she offered.
"Wherever you feel most comfortable."
She broke contact with his potent gaze, and drew a calming breath. Hester wondered why it suddenly felt like July in there, and why looking at him made the tingling start up again. She knew why. In spite of her previous denials, she found herself attracted to Galen.
Downstairs at the table, Hester told herself that she did not feel the heat of his body warming her own as she went about setting the plates, but knew she lied. The heat was as rattling as the memories of his boldly expressed desire to see her nude.
Galen looked down at her hands as she placed his plate before him, and fought down the urge to stroke the indigo-colored backs and the small severed finger. He knew he shouldn't be indulging himself with the imagined touch and feel of her, for he would be out of her life very soon, but the more he denied himself, the stronger the urge became. To her credit, she'd chosen to eat at the table. The atmosphere in the room upstairs had been sultry and charged. He'd felt it and was fairly certain she had also. Propriety dictated she not be alone in his room. Propriety also dictated that he do nothing to undermine her relationship with her fiance, though Galen wished it sorely.
In her seat across the table from him, Hester fought to keep herself on an even keel. By all rights she should be viewing Galen as just another passenger seeking a safe harbor, but he'd become more than that and she'd no idea how to proceed. She thought to neutralize the intensity by asking, "Where'd you learn to speak French?"
"Louisiana. Where'd you learn to cook?"
Hester smiled. "My aunt Katherine."
"She taught you well."
Before Hester could stop herself she asked, "Is Galen your true name?"
He observed her over his plate for a few, long moments, so long in fact, Hester said contritely, "You don't have to answer. I'm sorry. That's really none of my business."
"No apologies are necessary. My true name is Galeno. It's Spanish, and means 'the light one.' Galen is the English version."
"I see," she said, still shocked at her serious breach of Road manners. She knew better.
"Any other questions?" he asked softly.
She shook her head, no.
"Then I've one for you. Is your fiance real or just a ploy to keep strange men from intruding into your life?"
Hester looked over at him, and into his heated gaze. "Which would you prefer?"
He gave her that smile again. "The latter, truthfully."
"Are you always so blunt?"
"With you, always."
"Surely if there are women in your life who will willingly enter your tub, what use would an inexperienced, purple-handed, ex-slave girl be, but for amusement?"
"You devalue yourself for no reason, Indigo."
Hester felt herself blossom again under the name. She told herself to remember her fiance Foster. "I prefer you call me Hester."
"But you're not a Hester. You're an Indigo. Hesters are joyless, pruny old women who look down their noses at sinners like me. Take the word of an authority on women. Indigo is what you are, Indigo is who you will be." Then in a voice which further constricted her breathing, he added, "At least to me, you will be Indigo."
She didn't argue.
He then asked, "Who told you your hands would always brand you a slave?"
Hester was so relieved by the change in topics she answered gladly. "A woman who took care of me on the place in Carolina where I grew up. Her name was Dot.
"Dot's daughter, Ella, was my best friend back in Carolina. We were about eight or nine, and had just been allowed to work the vats with the older women in the yard..."
"You think our hands will ever be dark as my mama's?" Ella asked Hester. The two young girls stood over the big steaming vat of blue-black indigo, their small hands immersed to the wrists, twisting and squeezing the smelly dye through the cotton cloth.
Hester pulled her hands out and surveyed the palms and backs. "Don't know. They're pretty dark now, but no way near dark as your mama's or Aunt Kay's."
"Well, pretty soon, don't you think? I mean it didn't take long for our toes. Hands shouldn't take that much longer." Like all the other children on the place, the girls' first job had been to help macerate the indigo plants by using their feet, in much the same way European workers processed grapes for wine.
The young Hester shrugged at Ella's assessment. Ever since they'd been allowed to work the vats, all Ella could talk about was getting her hands as dark as her mama's. Ella's day began and ended with her mama, Dot. To hear Ella tell it, Dot was the smartest woman on the place. Hester had to agree; Dot knew everything from where to find the herbs Aunt Kay used to keep everybody on the place healthy, to the position of the Freedom Star. She could even read, a skill Hester found absolutely amazing since she didn't know anyone else who could. Ella had confided this surprising information to Hester one night the summer before while they lay side by side on their pallets in the small cabin Dot's family called home. Ella made Hester swear not to tell another soul because if the owner Master Dill ever found out he'd sell Dot deep south for sure.
"Ella!" came Dot's warning voice. Both girls looked across the yard.
"You and Hester stop that dawdling and get to work. Lot of dyeing to do before Dudley blows that horn tonight."
Dudley was the overseer. His horn called them to the vats at dawn and sent them all back to the cabins at dusk.
Ella's mother and the other older women stood barefoot in the ankle-deep, mud-filled yard, hands immersed in steaming, smelly vats of their own. Ella held up her stained hands, then boasted proudly, "See mama. Pretty soon my hands will be just as dark as yours."
The sounds in the yard were usually a mixture of voices, soft humming, and the rhythmic slap of the cloth being dipped in and out of the vats. On the heels of Ella's boast the yard became very silent. Some of the women lowered their eyes, others shook their head as if saddened.
Hester, having no idea why Ella's comments had drawn such a strange reaction, looked over to her friend and saw Ella's confusion mirrored her own.
Dot said gently, "Ella, Hester, hands like these are nothing to be proud of. They're slave hands. Marked hands. Until the day you die your hands will say slave. Now, you two get on back to work."
Hester looked over at Galen. "We were children and until that moment Ella and I had never been ashamed of our life, because it was the only life we'd known. That night, Dot sat us both down and told us the truth about our lives and how the world viewed us. I never forgot it."
"How long after that did you escape?"
"Ironically it was only a few days later. A speculator show
ed up on the place."
Galen had posed as a speculator on more than a few occasions. Speculators were itinerant slave salesmen who traveled from plantation to plantation, purchasing any slaves a master might want to sell—usually the unruly, lame, or aged slaves no longer able to pull their weight. The speculator then sold them wherever he could.
Galen asked, "So what happened?"
Once again, Hester's voice spirited them both away and back to the past.
News of the speculator's arrival had everyone on the place tense and afraid. As a result, the yard was thick with silence. The master hadn't had much trouble with his slaves, but no one claimed to know the master's mind; for all they knew someone might have committed an infraction, and whether the infraction be real or imagined, any slave could be sold in a whip's flick.
As the speculator, accompanied by Master Dill, slowly made his way towards the women in the yard, Ella cautioned Hester, "Don't look at him. Look at him and he'll buy you for sure."
Hester definitely didn't want to be bought so she dropped her head and focused her attention on the dyeing, but when she heard, "How about this one?" she tightened with fear.
Hester forced herself to concentrate on her task, praying with all her might they were speculating on someone else.
"How much?" the master asked.
"How old is she?" the speculator countered.
"I've had her for . . . let's see ..."
Hester heard the rustle of paper as the master looked through his ledger. He then said, "Six years. So that makes her about eight, nine."
"She a good worker?"
"Far as I know." The master turned to Dot. "Dot?"
Dot looked up, her eyes brushing Hester's own for a breath of a second. "Yes, Master Dill."
"This here girl a good worker?"
Dot held Hester's eyes. "Yes, sir, she is."
"Good. Just like I thought. Turn around here girl, let's get a good look at you."
Hester felt a tap on her shoulder. It confirmed her worst fears. Shaking so badly she could hardly move, she turned.
The speculator had the coldest blue eyes she'd ever seen. They were like chips from the sky. She knew her fear showed itself plainly on her face.
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