Indigo

by Beverly Jenkins

  He asked her, "What's your name, girl?"

  "Hester," she whispered.

  "Hold out your hands. Man I know wants a girl your age to train in his loom house."

  Hester complied, hoping her cut-off pinky would somehow make her unfit.

  "What happened to your finger?" the speculator asked then.

  "I don't know. Dot says it was this way when I came here."

  He looked to Dot. She nodded verification.

  When he brought his attention back to Hester, she shook under his piercing, blue gaze.

  He said, "Go on back to work, Hester."

  The men moved on.

  That next morning, Hester was amongst a group of four slaves purchased by the speculator. Mistress Dill allowed Hester only enough time to gather up her meager belongings and to share a quick, tear-filled goodbye with Dot and Ella. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Hester went and stood with the others, two women and a man, sold because they kept running away. The man was shackled at the ankle to a long chain attached to the back of the wagon. Hester and the women were allowed to ride in the wagon bed behind the cold-eyed speculator.

  They departed at dawn. As they rolled away, Hester saw Dot standing outside the cabin, holding a quietly sobbing Ella to her side. A tearful Hester held Dot's stoic eyes until the wagon took her from sight.

  As Hester ended her story, Galen could see the tears standing in her eyes. He wanted to hold her in his arms until the pain of that day vanished from her memory forever. "Were Dot and Ella the only family you'd ever known?"

  She nodded yes, then said softly, "I never saw either of them again. I pray for them every night."

  "How long after that did you escape? You said earlier you came north when you were nine."

  "About two weeks later. The speculator left the others at various houses in and around Charleston. He took me across town to the home of a man named Hancock, gave me over to his care, then departed. I remember being terrified. I stayed there only a night or two before embarking on a train trip to Philadelphia with Mr. Hancock and his young daughter, Julia. It was the first time I'd ever worn a pair of real shoes. I'd never even seen a train before." She turned to Galen and gave him a bittersweet smile. "Everything was new."

  Her unashamed offering of her past touched yet another cord in Galen. What else hadn't she seen, he wondered. Had she seen the fabled wall of China, the great pyramids of Egypt? Had she ever walked through the vibrant marketplaces of Havana, or had her fortune told in Madrid? He realized he wanted to make up for all she'd lacked in the past, drape her in silks, and gift her with pearls to match her eyes.

  Her voice returned him to her tale. "When we got to Philadelphia, the Hancocks took me to a man in Philadelphia named Robert Purvis."

  "Robert Purvis of the Philadelphia Antislavery Society?"

  "I didn't know it at the time, but yes, the very same."

  Robert Purvis stood as a giant amongst abolitionists. Although he was fair-skinned enough to be considered White due to his English and Jewish ancestry, he'd chosen to be true to his heritage and lived life as a Black man. The inherited wealth of his family had always been used to promote freedom.

  "Mr. Purvis took my hand, and led me into his home. I never saw the Hancocks again. Only later did I learn that my aunt Katherine had arranged my escape. The speculator had been hired by her and her friends to find me. It took him almost six years. Aunt Katherine said that in the last letter from my father, he'd mentioned I'd been sold to a man named Weston. Evidently the search for me became complicated because Weston lost his slaves and land to foreclosure. Her sources said every slave he owned, including six baby girls, had gone on the block. The records of the sale did not list the children by name, only age. The records also indicated each baby had been purchased by different owners. Her friends spent those six years trying to determine the whereabouts of those six babies in an effort to find me. Aunt Katherine said she'd just about given up hope when I showed up on her doorstep, courtesy of friends of Mr. Purvis."

  "So are you legally free?"

  "As legally free as a Black woman can be in these times. The speculator sold me to Mr. Hancock and then he, in turn, freed me. He gave me and my free papers over to Mr. Purvis. I have copies on file at the sheriff’s office, and one hidden here in the house."

  Galen knew that one's free papers were the most valuable documents a freed slave could own. Without them, a person could be subject to kidnapping by vermin like Shoe and sent south, all without benefit of a hearing due to the mandates of the Fugitive Slave Law.

  Hester had never described her past in such detail to anyone other than her aunt; not even her fiance Foster knew all she'd revealed to Galen just now. Even though she'd only known him for a short time, she sensed that her tale would not shame Galen's sensibilities. Since he made his life assisting people in the transition from slave to free, he would understand how strange everything had seemed to the little purple-handed girl from Carolina.

  Hester glanced over at the candles and realized by their shortened size that she and Galen had been talking for some time. She stood and began to clear the table. "Does your side feel better now that the threads are gone?"

  "Immeasurably. Soaking in the tub helped also. I owe Bea for assisting me with the water."

  She looked at him and their eyes held, his gaze wrapped around her again like smoke. She finally tore herself away and began taking their plates to the kitchen.

  A few moments later, Galen came in asking, "May I help with the dishes?"

  "It isn't necessary, there are only a few."

  "I'd like to earn my keep."

  Hester tossed him a drying towel.

  It soon became apparent that Galen had never dried a dish in his life. The first plate he touched, he dropped and broke.

  Hester waved away his sincere apologies with a smile and grabbed the broom. As she swept up the shards, she asked playfully, "Not much call for dish drying where you come from or did you have servants for that kind of thing?"

  When he didn't answer, Hester searched his eyes. He looked guilty as a child caught pilfering cookies. "Does your family know you do the Work?"

  Again silence.

  Hester said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. Why don't you go on up. I'll finish up down here."

  He left without a word.

  That night as Galen finally gained sleep, his last thoughts were of a purple-handed little slave girl.

  Down the hall, in her own bed, Hester dreamt of the man who whispered, "Indigo . . ."

  Chapter 7

  When Galen approached Hester after breakfast with the idea of taking a walk as a way to strengthen his injured ankle, she agreed to accompany him. Standing high on the bluff behind her house, they looked down at the river stretched out below. It was a gloriously warm autumn day. The sky held the brilliant blue of a Michigan October and the clouds were as ripe as cotton. Hester spotted a flock of geese flying south in their signature v, their honking faint against the gentle wind.

  She'd suggested coming here mainly because she doubted they would be seen, and because standing on the bluff and gazing out over the river had always been one of her favorite pastimes. For her, no other place equaled the peace and tranquility found there.

  "Who owns that house?" Galen asked, pointing off in the distance at the very large house sitting like a sentinel on the bluff's point.

  "William Lovejoy. He had it built last year as a wedding gift to his daughter, Bethany Ann."

  "Very generous man," Galen replied, sounding impressed.

  "Apparently not generous enough. She ran off the night before the wedding."

  Galen raised a dark eyebrow in response, then turned back to the house. "How long has the daughter been gone?"

  "Almost three months now. Folks are starting to call the place Lovejoy's Folly. He'll probably sell the house whether Bethany Ann returns or not. He's a man of some importance in Whittaker, not the type to stomach folks whispering about the scandal behind
his back."

  Galen stared at the house until Hester called his name.

  Her voice apparently broke the spell because he glanced down at her and said, "I apologize, my thoughts were elsewhere for a moment. Did I miss something?"

  Hester glanced over at Lovejoy's Folly as if it might provide a clue to what Galen had been thinking, but of course it could not. "Nothing. You missed nothing. Shall we continue our walk?"

  "Lead the way."

  They walked along the bluff in silence, each harboring their own thoughts, until Galen said, "Tell me about your fiance."

  Hester's steps slowed. She searched his face, trying to glean the reason behind the request. "What do you wish to know?"

  Galen shrugged. "Oh, the usual, his name, what he does for a living, does he love you...?"

  His last words were spoken so softly, it made it hard to remember what she wanted to say. "His name is Foster Quint. He's Canadian free born, and our local teacher."

  "And?"

  "And, what?"

  "Does he love you?"

  "You're an awfully curious man," she pointed out with a smile.

  "It's the only way to get one's curiosity satisfied."

  His tone and vivid eyes made her think back three days ago to the night he caught her peeking at him in the mirror. That night, he'd boldly voiced a desire to satisfy a different type of curiosity. She wondered if he were slyly referring to that. The amusement she saw on his face seemed to be all the verification she needed. "I believe you are accustomed to a more spirited level of conversation than I, Galen."

  "It is indeed possible, petite, but I believe you will learn to hold your own soon enough. Now, I'm still waiting for an answer to my question. Does he love you?"

  Hester smiled up at him and shook her head, no.

  He raised the eyebrow again, a signature quirk she'd come to realize, then he said quizzically, "No?"

  "No. We aren't marrying for love. We are marrying for something far more lasting."

  "That being?"

  "Companionship."

  "Companionship," Galen echoed skeptically, doubtfully.

  "Yes. Many couples marry for love only to find they have nothing in common. They pledge eternal devotion but reap years of misery instead. I don't wish to live that way. Foster and I share common interests—we both love to read, we both love the theater, the intellectual stimulation of debating another person of equal intelligence. He is educated, kind, and highly regarded here."

  "Sounds like a virtual paragon, this Frederick."

  "Foster. His name is Foster."

  Galen nodded, then turned to look out over the panoramic view of trees, and water. "Why would a vibrant, beautiful woman like yourself want to marry for anything beside love?"

  Hester ignored his reference to her supposed beauty. "Have you ever been in love, Galen?"

  "Once when I was about nineteen. Her name was Yvette. She was—" He stopped himself from speaking further. He doubted the prim Indigo would appreciate tales of one of Paris's highly celebrated courtesans. "Let's just say, I thought I was in love at the time."

  Hester said, "Well, I've never been in love either, but when I see what it has done to people who have—it brings only sadness. Take the circumstances love forced upon my father. Take my neighbor, Branton Hubble. He loved my aunt Katherine all of his free life, and she loved him. They spent nearly thirty years pining for one another because he chose to be an honorable man and remain loyal to the wife he had to leave behind when he escaped Kentucky. Then there's poor Bethany Ann Lovejoy. Do you know why she ran away? She made the mistake of falling in love with Sheriff Lawson's son David, and David loves her, but in some parts of the country their love is a jailable offense. She couldn't bear to marry another. If I need more examples I have only to sit in Kate Bell's house and listen to the woeful tales of love her patrons tell. So, no, Galen. I don't wish to marry for love. I don't need misery in my life."

  Galen realized she believed every word. "It isn't always that way, petite. I know of love matches that have spanned a lifetime."

  "It doesn't matter, Galen. I'm past the age of a love match anyway. Foster and I will suit fine."

  "So if I may be so bold to ask, are you planning on babies?"

  Hester laughed. "Of course not. Foster and I absolutely agree that bringing children into a society such as this is nearly as great a sin as slavery itself. If a miracle occurs and slavery ceases, we will revisit the issue."

  Galen did not find their decision on children to be out of the ordinary; many members of the race were vowing not to have children until freedom could be assured, but Galen did wonder about this Frederick. Did this mean there would be no shared marriage bed, and if so, what man in his right mind would consent to do nothing more intimate with Hester than debate the issues of the day? She deserved to be both loved and cherished, especially in the face of her past. In spite of her intellectual theorizing, the plain truth was that she was afraid of love, he realized. "So does this fiance of yours have any faults?"

  She shrugged. "He can be a bit long-winded at times, but it's a result of his advanced education. He believes society should be more aware of the many erudite and articulate members of the race, so he tends to talk on and on to the point of boring one to tears at times, but that's part and parcel of who he is."

  "Yet you're willing to marry him."

  "Yes, Galen, I am. No man is perfect. Not even you."

  "Touché, madam, I forgot about your claws."

  She smiled up at him. "You'd do good to remember. One would think you were my maiden aunt with all these questions."

  "Curiosity, petite, nothing more. Forgive me."

  "You're forgiven," she said. The beard shrouding his face had grown in thicker over the past week. It all but covered the remains of his beating and gave him the look of a pirate. Bea had been correct. He'd healed up quite handsomely. She then asked, "How's your ankle faring? Shall we take a slow tour back towards the house?"

  Galen didn't want to relinquish her company just yet, so he said, "How about we sit a moment? My ankle is a bit tired."

  "There's a bench up here a little ways, we can sit there."

  Galen knew his ankle was in much better shape than he'd let on, but decided the small untruth justifiable if it kept her dark beauty at his side.

  Just as Hester had promised, they came upon an old, weather-beaten stone bench and they each took a seat. Hester leaned her head back and looked up at the beautiful sky. "When I was young, I would sit on this bench for what seemed hours, staring up at the clouds. I'd see unicorns, and eagles, huge mansions. Once I even saw the Great Mr. Douglass himself. Bold as day it was."

  "What else did you do when you were young?"

  "For fun, not much more. My aunt thought I'd be better served by mastering my studies, and I agreed. After all, I was totally ignorant when I came to live with her. I had to learn to read, write. I still recall how proud I was the day I learned to write Hester Wyatt without assistance." She turned his way. "I wanted so much to please her. She would come up to my room at night and there I'd be, asleep at my desk, head atop some book or another, because I wanted to learn all there was. I suppose, I'm still that way in many respects, even though I know some men find intellect in a woman quite disconcerting. Do you?"

  Galen searched her frank eyes, and replied truthfully, "No, Indigo, I don't. . ." The urge to raise his fingers and trace the sweet blackberry curve of her lips roared through Galen with such force it almost blazed past his defenses. To distract himself he asked, "Surely, you did girl things for fun—played with dolls, made mud pies?"

  She laughed. "Mud pies?! Have you any idea what my aunt would've done had I come home covered with river mud? No Galen, I had a few dollies, but I've never played in mud in my life."

  "Then let's go make mud pies!" he yelled, snatching her by the hand. Before Hester could protest she found herself being pulled down the bluff in his wake.

  Laughing, she yelled, "But I don't want to m
ake mud pies!"

  He didn't ease his pace, or his hold on her captured hand.

  "Galen?!" she called over her giggles. "You can't make me make mud pies against my—will!"

  The last word was a laugh-filled scream as Hester reacted to being scooped up into Galen's arms. She came to rest cradled against his broad chest, her hands around his neck. He stared down into her startled face and said, "Now, you were saying?"

  Hester blinked and wondered if she would ever breathe again. Because of her scrambled brains, all she could think to say was, "You're going to reinjure your ankle . . ."

  "I've carried birds that weigh more than you."

  He was so near and so overpowering, Hester could feel herself on the verge of fainting for the very first time in her life. His hot nearness seemed to have burned away the fabric of her blouse. "You must put me down," she told him in a voice far softer and more strangled than she'd intended.

  "Are you going to come make mud pies with me or not?"

  For the life of her, Hester couldn't speak. She couldn't believe how hard her heart was pounding. She knew agreeing would undoubtedly alter her life forever, but she said, "Yes."

  He eased her to her feet, took her indigo hand again, and said, "Let's go."

  Disagreement flared as soon as they reached the river's edge. Hester refused to take off her shoes. Galen, in the process of removing his own boots and socks, stopped and said, "Hester, you have to take off your shoes."

  "Galen, I am not removing my shoes. I don't know where you were raised, but that's a bit risqué for me."

  "I'm not asking you to remove your chemise, petite, just those brogans on your feet." The boots were scuffed and old. He doubted he'd ever seen an uglier pair of shoes on a woman in his life.

  In her mind, Hester formed a brazen image of herself willingly removing her chemise in response to his imagined heated request. She shook herself free. "My shoes stay on."

  Galen said, "You are the contrariest woman I have ever met."

  Hester snorted. "Contrariest. What kind of word is contrariest. French?"