by Naomi Finley
My own haunted memories rent at my heart, and I found an unwanted commonality with the woman.
Burrell lowered his head and silently wept.
“You are wasting your time here. They secured his silence. You will not receive any more information than you already have. I’ve tried. It’s impossible to get information from my husband in his condition.”
“We must try,” Tucker said with a gentleness I hadn’t witnessed in her so far. “I am Whitney Tucker, and Willow Armstrong and her husband are my dearest friends.”
The man lifted his head and regarded her. Opening his mouth, he tried to speak, but his words came out as agonizing moans.
“Have you been to Livingston?” She pulled up a chair and sat.
He nodded.
“To spy on them and report back to this Evans and his man?”
Guilt flooded his face, but again, he nodded.
Rose stood by gawking as though it were the first time she’d received the information.
“Why do these men seek to harm them?” Tucker asked the question I’d wondered over the years.
The words Oliver had spoken when I’d awakened to his hands around my throat came to mind. “To lift a curse,” I said.
Tucker’s brows dropped before her eyes widened, and she went as white as fresh snow. “What did you say?”
“One night I awoke to Oliver choking me and saying something about taking his revenge and ending a curse.”
Tucker leaped to her feet, and her chair toppled over. “Silas!”
“Who?”
“Silas Anderson. No, I mean—” She stopped as if searching for something in her mind. “Reuben McCoy.”
Reuben McCoy. The name sounded as familiar as his face had the day he walked into my brothel. But why?
All eyes fixed on her as she placed a hand to her forehead and paced the room. “It has to be.”
I stepped forward and gripped her arm, halting her pacing. “Please tell me what you know.”
Avoiding my question, she peered at me with a look of debilitating fear. “Describe this lover of yours.”
I frowned but complied. “He is dapper, handsome, and for the most part, charming. However, lately he has seemed to unravel, and his behavior has become most troubling.”
Tucker clutched the table to steady herself. “Does he walk with a limp or a shuffle?”
“He does.”
She slumped forward with both palms on the table, and it creaked and leaned under her weight. In a drawn-out breath, she said, “It is he.”
Rose left her husband’s side to escort the woman into a chair. “Sit before your legs give way.” Her gesture of kindness took Tucker by surprise, and she obeyed.
After a pause and a lot of confusing facial expressions, Tucker said, “I believe your lover is the man I mentioned. He’s responsible for the murder of Willow Armstrong’s father, and his family murdered her mother, Olivia Hendricks, when he was but a small boy. The man is controlled by demons and obsessed with the belief that Olivia cursed his family with her last breath. He is crazed, not right in the head. He sweeps from town to town, taking on aliases and murdering anyone to further his purposes and to satisfy a need. You’re not the first to become a target of his derangement.” Tucker’s shoulders slumped. “His slave, Caesar, lost his tongue to ensure he never reported Willow’s mother’s murder.”
If he was a wanted man, was that why he seemed familiar? Perhaps I’d seen him on a wanted poster. I cringed at the thought of the man I had bedded. How could I have been so blind? Had he not been calculated and charming? “Your friend has suffered greatly,” I said.
“And his accomplice,” Rose said in a low tone. “What about him?” Her eyes were wide with the need to know.
“I do not know.” Tucker shrugged but offered a look of sympathy. “Perhaps a hired man he acquired to aid him in his mission to see my friend dead.” She stood. “We must go. We have to inform the authorities, and I must return to Charleston at once to warn my friends.”
“Swiftness in alerting the Armstrongs is of great importance—”
Rose’s voice hitched with panic. “You promised you would help us.”
I turned to her. “And I will.” I took her hands in mine. “I will return within the hour. Be sure to be ready, with only what you can carry.”
We took our leave.
Sometime later, outside the police station, I stopped. Tucker shifted to face me. “What is the holdup?”
“I can’t go in there.”
“Why not?” She grimaced.
My pulse raced in my ears. “Because, like Oliver…or Silas or whatever his name may be, I may have a bounty on my head.”
She crept forward and, to my surprise and relief, looked around before whispering, “What do you mean?”
I quickly summed up my childhood and the life I’d taken. “So you see, if I go in there, I may not be coming out.”
She straightened, and with a look of compassion and understanding, said, “I will do this alone. Take him.” She nodded at the hired man standing some feet away. “Get the Rawlingses out of New York and away from McCoy.”
Tears welled. “You have my gratitude.”
“You risked much to help. We are indebted to you.”
“There is no debt to repay.”
“Very well, but I have one question.” She held my gaze.
I inclined my head out of reverence. “Speak it, and I shall answer.”
“Why jeopardize your own life to save people you don’t know?”
I swallowed back rising emotions. “B-because some years ago, a runaway slave saved me from starvation. Not only of the body but the heart, and I owe him my life.” I dipped my head. “Maybe in saving his people from a sure fate and aiding the Armstrongs, I can ease a guilty conscience and honor a man who gave me something I needed.”
“What?”
I brushed a tear trickling down my cheek. “Worth.”
Big John would never know he had been my saving grace. I pushed the vision of his grief-stricken face inside the jail cell from my mind. Even after all these years, the despondency and disgrace were too much to bear. That night had become equivalent to my childhood of horrors—another memory I strove to strike from my mind.
“I must go,” she said. “Be safe.” And with that, she spun and marched up the steps and into the brownstone building.
From the shadows of the boardwalk, I stood wondering if I’d ever see her again, and I felt a deep respect for the woman.
The hired man and I returned to the Rawlings’ shack, and I froze when I saw the door ajar. In a flash, the man stepped in front of me and moved me behind him before flinging back his coat to grip the pistol holstered at his waist. We crept forward, and on the threshold, he halted. I peered around his broad frame and saw blood pooling on the floor.
No! I pushed by him and charged into the shack. And gasped. I stopped and raised a hand to cover my mouth. Burrell’s lifeless body sprawled on the dirt floor, gutted from sternum to spleen. Next to him, Rose lay gasping for air with a knife in her chest. Beneath the blade, like a flower pinned to a frock, was a folded piece of parchment. I gulped, knowing without asking who was responsible.
I raced to her side and dropped to my knees, cradling her head in my lap. “No, no, no,” I moaned, sobs clutching at my chest.
Blood bubbled from her lips and trickled down her chin as she fought to speak. “H-him. It was…” Her fingers dug at my wrist as she fought for life, fear contorting her features.
Tears blurred my vision. I brushed back her blood-soaked hair. “I-I am sorry I could not save you.”
Her body arched and thrashed. Then, as the spirit left her body, her face softened, and she lay still.
A shadow loomed over me, and I glanced up at the hired man. He squatted beside me and plucked the blade from her chest and unfolded the note, and glanced at it before handing it to me. I scanned the words scribbled for my benefit.
Do not forget I know what
you’ve done. You will pay with your life.
Numbed, I sat unaffected by Reuben McCoy’s goodbye…for now.
“Come,” a husky voice said. A gentle hand rested on my shoulder and I glanced at the man, who leaned forward and offered a hand. I peered into his eyes, regarding me with empathy and concern. Tilting my head, I gazed into their light brown warmth before searching his face. He had an ordinary face with a strong jaw and scars from too many brawls, but his eyes hauled me back.
“We must bury them,” I said.
“It isn’t safe.” He pulled me to my feet in a single attempt in a way that didn’t instill fear, but a sense of security. “If your enemies return, I will have failed my client. And I want to get paid.”
As we walked from the shack, he wrapped an arm around my waist. Embracing the offered support, I leaned into his body. “Perhaps you might seek new employment.”
He paused but soon continued. “Am I to believe you want to hire me?”
“Yes, but on more permanent basis.”
“As your personal bodyguard?”
“I have the means to see you well paid.”
“Very well, Miss Laclaire, I am open to discussing the matter.”
Willow—December 20, 1860
THE SOUTH’S AMBITION TO SECEDE from the Union intoxicated those out on this December afternoon. Marching bands, fireworks, and rallies congested with citizens echoed from every street in Charleston. Flags hung from balconies, and hotels were packed to capacity with the delegates for the Secession Convention.
“Do you think they will be successful in their mission to secede?” I asked Bowden from my seat in our open private carriage. I was observing the festivities with apprehension.
“The South’s very civilization was built on the unwavering belief in the benefit of slavery. President Buchanan’s position is that we have no right to secede. With him supporting his oath during his inauguration to not run for reelection, and with Lincoln’s recent election, I fear he is powerless to stop South Carolina from seceding. Heaven help us all if they do.”
I regarded my husband’s rigid form as he watched the gunboats patrolling the harbor, assigned by Governor Pickens to ensure Major Robert Anderson didn’t receive reinforcements or move his garrison to a stronger position at Fort Sumter.
“Pastor Abel joins others in Preacher Palmer’s view that the South must defend the foundation of God and religion by supporting the institution of slavery,” I said.
“Men putting themselves into positions of power to impress their ideas on their parishioners. I don’t condone such antics.”
As we rode along, concern over what was transpiring inside St. Andrew’s Hall weighed heavily on our minds, and our conversation ceased.
Bowden turned the buggy down Broad Street, where a crowd waited outside the hall for news of the pending decision. Amongst the crush of silken gowns, tailored suits, parasols, bonnets, and top hats of high society folks mingled farmers, bakers, dockhands, blacksmiths, and street cleaners, blacks and whites alike. The congestion prevented us from getting closer. Bowden pulled to a stop. After securing the team, he reached for my hand and helped me from the carriage, and we joined the crowd.
“Willow,” a woman called, and I spotted Josephine pressing through the crowd toward us.
“How are you?” I smiled when she joined us.
“As well as can be expected.” She leaned in and embraced me before kissing each of my cheeks. “I’ve meant to stop by,” she whispered in my ear, “but with the heightening of the vigilante patrols on the roads, seeking to oust abolitionists harboring slaves, I thought it best to stay away.” She stepped back.
“I’m grateful,” I said.
Our relationship since her discovery of her son’s whereabouts had deepened immensely. She continued to put Sailor’s well-being first, and in doing so, Livingston and our assistance to fugitives continued undiscovered, unbeknownst to her.
“If you ladies will excuse me, I believe I see Knox,” Bowden said.
Holding him within my sight, I asked Josephine, “Are you here with your husband?”
“I am, but he left me to gain a closer view. I have no mind or care for political matters. My husband insists on hosting his political friends in our home, and I’ve become quite bored in the process.”
“But what secession would mean for the South must give you cause for concern?”
“Of course. I look out my parlor windows and behold the gunships coasting the harbor. It’s an eerie feeling for me, as it is for most. But a woman has no say in the actions of the men who rule our country. So why concern myself with such tiresome matters?”
“But their ambitions are sure to bring war,” I said for her ears only.
“There is a possibility.” She wiped an invisible chill from her arms. “I, for one, don’t wish to think about such matters. But I—”
Lucille’s high-pitched voice drew our attention to where she stood, clad in a pale pink gown embellished with all the bolts of lace and accessories once available in Charleston. Her husband was stationed at her side, and some feet away, her lover stood eyeing him with malice. Always the spectacle. I compressed my lips but kept my opinions silent.
“Shall we avoid the exhibition?” Josephine nodded in Lucille’s direction, smirking.
I struggled to keep from bursting into laughter and looped my arm through hers. We strolled in the opposite direction, fading into the crowd. Through gaps in the assembly, I noticed the Barlows and Callie, and when Magnus spotted me, he nodded his acknowledgment but refrained from attracting attention.
“Have you heard from Whitney?” Josephine asked.
“She writes.”
“Any mention of returning home?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“She has been gone so long,” she said. “I do hope she plans to return regardless of the slander others have fixed to her name. And Knox…” I followed her gaze to where Knox and Bowden stood absorbed in what appeared to be a serious conversation. “He tries to hold his head high and only speaks warmly of his wife. A man of rare character. Perhaps if I had paid him more attention before she moved to town, I wouldn’t find myself trapped.”
“I know he misses her. He has had a terrible bout of melancholy since her departure.”
I had resolved myself to Whitney’s decision to leave, and with her failure to return, I wondered if she might never return home, but I hadn’t broached the subject in our correspondence. Bowden and Ben had teased me about my restraint in the matter, but I wouldn’t be so readily taunted. Hasty words conjured by despair that day in the orchard had caused enough unhappiness. I’d set my mind to keeping concerns about Whitney and Knox’s separation private.
“I’m sure you miss her too,” Josephine said.
“I do. But a good friend must support another. Regardless of the difference in our views—” My words were drowned out as a resounding call made the crowd erupt with delight.
“Secession!”
A multitude of hands thrust into the sky in triumph, and my legs trembled.
“A glorious day!” A woman shoved past me.
Smiling womenfolk embraced, and men shook hands and clapped each other on the back.
“The South is purified!”
I glanced from Josephine, who seemed dazed by the roar of the crowd, to my husband. He searched the faces before our eyes locked, and the concern on his face was akin to the pounding of my heart.
“Now what?” Josephine clutched my arm.
“I don’t know, but it can’t be good.”
“My husband says the Northerners have turned from God, and in doing so, we had to rid ourselves of them. I guess choosing this secession will see to that. He said that if this resolution was successful, other states would soon follow.”
“A clear divide from the rest of the Union can only mean one thing.”
She gulped as realization flickered in her eyes. “I suppose I had foolishly hoped that if I blotted out all discussi
ons of the South’s withdrawal from the Union, as well as my husband and others fanning words of war, I could extinguish the certainty.”
The victory for South Carolina could only mean one thing…war waited in the aftermath of this day.
THE WARMING KITCHEN DOOR SWUNG open, and Mary Grace stormed in, her features pinched with anger. “She is impossible! Simply impossible.” The door groaned shut behind her.
I halted the fork of sweet potato pie halfway to my mouth and eyed her, frustrated. Lowering the bite of temptation that had beckoned to me since Mammy brought its steaming goodness from the kitchen house, I forced back the moan of disappointment and set the fork down, hoping for a swift resolution. I turned to give her my full attention.
Although she rarely came untangled, when she did, her mama’s fiery spirit appeared. On such occasions, all who stood by would be wise to flee. I glanced at the door, blocked by her tense body, and resolved myself to defeat. “Who?” I said.
“Mama.” She flung her hand in the air as though I should already know.
Mary Grace and Mammy had faced their share of differences lately. I figured the dynamics of their relationship had changed with Big John’s arrival last spring, and Magnus and Mary Grace’s blossoming affections.
“Care to tell me what happened?”
She dropped into a chair at the small table under the window overlooking the work yard and sat silently for a moment, her attention seized by something in the yard. I lowered myself down across from her and followed her gaze. Outside the kitchen house door, Big John stood with his arm resting against the exterior wall, and Mammy stood peering up at him, both lost in chatter and smiles. Each month that passed, the renewed love between the pair was endearing to see and much deserved. I had delighted in their happiness and the love and joy that seemed to radiate throughout Livingston.
“She has Big John now, and I don’t begrudge her.” She turned to regard me with misery in her eyes. “I love Mama. You know I do.”