"Yes, mother, it's something." Emma squirmed and sat upright, noting that her mother wasted no concern on her daughter's condition, emotional or physical.
"I think it's perfect for tomorrow evening."
"What's happening tomorrow?"
Olivia gasped. "Why Emma Louise, don't tell me you've forgotten that we're having company. Very special company."
Having watched her friend die and having endured the greatest trauma of her life, Emma had forgotten. But now, she remembered. In the recesses of her mind, she had hoped her mother might find a pinch of sensitivity and reschedule the dreadful event.
"Mother, you can't be serious. I know it's escaped your attention, but I'm in no condition to wear that… thing tomorrow night." Emma tried to subdue the bitterness gnawing inside her.
"If you would eat and commit your strength to getting well, you would be fine."
"Since I'm not fine, I think you should send word to Vaughn and his family and reschedule your dinner."
"Don't be ridiculous, Emma. I would never dream of inconveniencing the Jacksons on account of your foolish behavior."
There were moments in Emma's life when she desperately wondered how Thomas Cartwright ever fell in love with Olivia Hollingsworth. Her mind tried to imagine their courtship. What did they talk about? How had they fallen in love with each other? But Emma credited that to her father. A man whose patience knew no end and whose kindness knew no limits, Thomas had been the sort of man who would have fallen for Olivia's heavenly beauty and charms. Emma had grown to believe that her mother's loving-kindness had deteriorated and rotted from life on a plantation. Though festivities were grand on the estate, plantation life was isolated and devoted to routine. Olivia wanted to entertain and bask in the adoration of others. Planting, raising, and harvesting the rice didn't enthrall her.
"Tomorrow will be one of the most important nights for this family. I think you know what I'm referring to, Emma." Olivia cast her a scornful look. "And I do believe you know what's expected of you."
Emma said nothing. Apparently, Knox and Olivia had decided that a united front would be an effective tactic. Loathsomeness simmered inside Emma. She preferred doses of castor oil to one of her mother's parties or lectures, and in light of tomorrow night, she would prefer cuddling with a hungry gator from the marsh.
"You owe this to your grandfather, and you know I'm right. That man has endured enough. He's hardly taken a bite since the uproar you caused. He hasn't slept well, either. I've heard him pacing in the night. You're exhausting him, Emma. You're exhausting all of us. With the way things are with the Confederacy right now, you need to focus on your family, not forcing slaves to read or squabbling with Quinn — or poisoning Sylvia against me."
"Mother!"
"You know it to be true. She defies me to please you. I'll not have it anymore." She ran a hand over her hair and touched her cheeks as if the matter wasn't worth getting upset over. In a calmer voice she said, "Let me be clear. You will wear that dress tomorrow night, and you will fulfill your duty to this family. You will be polite and gracious — and you will not trouble Vaughn or any of our guests with mention of your irrational actions. Do you understand me, young lady?"
Emma knew an answer wasn't sought. Her zeal to argue abandoned her while pain began to spike. She fell back into her bed, welcoming the throbbing aches and the escape into unconsciousness.
****
Emma could bear it no longer. The tension and uncertainty threatened to suffocate her. Three days had crawled by since the beating. Since Basil's death. She had to get to the slaves' quarters, had to see Tilda, and she had to find a way to explain.
Emma checked for her grandfather but saw the chair was empty. Slowly and carefully, she dressed in the dark. Sylvia stirred from Emma's bed but settled back into a peaceful sleep. Emma smiled, thinking how useless it was for Sylvia to have her own room.
Leaving her room, Emma was mindful of the floorboards. She had ventured out at night enough to know which sections would betray her with creaks and groans. Her heart raced as she worried that her grandfather — or worse, one of her brothers — might spring from the shadows at any turn. However, a surge of exuberance hit her when she stepped out into the moonlit night.
At the sight of the hitching post, though, disgust crept over her. With trembling legs, she moved near it. No obvious signs of what had happened showed, thanks to the rain, but Emma knew traces of blood had to be there, embedded in the wood. Her hand reached out and grabbed hold of the post. She sobbed at its touch. Long ago, it had been a safe spot during games of tag with her brothers and sisters. Now, the weathered pine felt raw, splintered from ages of wear, humidity, and low country sun.
Emma struck it with her hand. The post budged, and her hurt turned to rage. She smacked it with her palms, then drove her shoulder into the wooden stake. The post snapped, causing Emma to tumble to the ground. Pain wrestled with her for a moment before she got on her knees and beat the ground with the broken top piece. Her sobs resumed, and her aches needled her, telling her she could not make it further from the house.
Refusing to listen to her body, Emma dashed from the lawn, fearful she might be heard, and ran toward the slaves' cabins. She passed the dogwood tree and ignored the faint glow of the delicate blooms in the tender blue light.
Emma had no idea how late it was. She hadn't thought about that. Basil's family and the rest of the laborers, she assumed, had to be asleep. No light outlined the sackcloth covered windows of the six cabins. Emma felt imprudent. She wanted to see Tilda but wouldn't wake Basil's mother if she was sleeping.
Instead, Emma made her way to the cemetery. Of course, no slave could share eternal resting space beside a Cartwright, so the family allowed the slaves a separate plot for burials. She walked to the hallowed grounds with shaky reverence. Through tear-brimmed eyes, she looked for a fresh grave. The scent of smoldering ash hinted in the air while a swarm of mosquitoes buzzed by her.
Emma gasped at the sight of a kneeling figure. A head turned in her direction.
"Miss Emma?" Tilda whispered. "Chil', whatchu doin' here in de middle o' de night?" She stood and dabbed her eyes with her apron. Thin and fragile, Tilda wore a bandana around her head and a dirty linen apron over her front. Grief and a lack of sleep marked her face. Her bony hands, warped from decades of scrubbing and wringing the Cartwright wash, reached for Emma as they had since Emma was a baby. Both Tilda and Harper had tended to and raised the Cartwright children while minding their chores. Emma had grown especially attached to her caregivers, ever deepening the gap between her and her mother.
"Oh, Tilda!" Emma fell into Tilda, sobbing. "I'm sorry! I never meant for this to happen! I'm so sorry. Please forgive me." Emma's grief rolled in like the tide over the salt marshes. Tilda, overwhelmed by Emma, said nothing. She clung to Emma as her own anguish for her son unleashed.
"Deys ain't nothin' we can do 'bout it, Miss Emma, 'cept pray." Tilda's voice sounded soft and injured, making Emma sob even harder.
The slaves' deeply religious ways perplexed Emma, as did the Almighty. She found no comfort in the fire-and-brimstone sermons Reverend McGee performed each Sunday from his pulpit. Instead, Emma found herself drawn to the worship services the slaves held in the Quarters. Their hymns and spirituals, sung with unbridled love and raw freedom, always piqued Emma's curiosity when she listened, perched from a tree. Now, she wondered why such a mighty God had failed Basil.
"Hush now, Miss Emma," Tilda whispered. "Dey'll hear you all way up at de house."
Emma understood her concerns. Slaves knew well the virtue of capping emotions in their brittle existence. As Emma tried to pull herself together, her arms slid from Tilda's, and she struggled to find her voice.
"I'm sorry, Tilda. I—"
"Shh. Best to hush. Weez ain't sleepin' much 'round here. Dem awful nightmares. Henry, he don' hardly leave Basil's side." Her voice buckled. "I know you'll be wantin' to says your goodbyes."
Tilda took Emma to
a pile of freshly tilled earth in the slave cemetery. Emma sank to the ground. Tears erupted anew. Emma clutched a handful of moist soil as uncontrolled lamentations poured from her lips. She slid facedown to the dirt and wept apologies to Basil's grave.
Emma exhausted herself. Images of Basil skipped through her mind. Remembering his big, bright smile made her chest tighten. He had only been eighteen. She recalled the time he told her about his dream to one day own a boat. Basil had loved the water, and on occasion, he and Emma had escaped to the docks at Port Royal. Ships and cargo arriving from around the world teased of adventure.
"That one," he would say as he pointed to the largest ship he could find. "I'm gonna get me a ship just like that one. I'll get Mamma and Henry, and weez goin' to sail far away from dis place. Maybe we'll go someplace where dey have snow. No rice and none o' dat cotton. Just snow."
"And I'll help you, Basil," Emma promised. "I'll help you get that ship."
Basil would laugh. Emma had laughed, too. She didn't know why. Maybe Basil didn't think she could help. She wanted to show him, wanted to prove him wrong. But she was glad she had laughed with him when she could.
"Miss Emma," Tilda said.
Emma roused from what must have turned into a dream. A chill rattled the air, and she noticed the moonlight had waned. Her slacked body moved like cold molasses. Numbness engulfed her.
"Best to git you back to de house now. I'll git Henry. He'll walk wit you."
"No, don't wake him." Emma gave one last look to Basil's resting place. "This is all my fault, Tilda. If I hadn't—"
Tilda shook her head. "Dis life full o' uncertains, Miss Emma. Now I'll miss ma boy ever livin' day I have left, but ain't nothin' promised to no man. Ain't no understandin' some thangs. Best wez can do is trust de Lawd and know wez be together again someday."
"Let me help you. I'll help you and Henry. We'll get you some papers, and then you can escape, head up North, across the Ohio River, where no one will ever come looking for you."
"Naw."
The remark stunned Emma. "I know, I know it can be dangerous, but you'll have Henry. He can face anything—"
"Naw, chil'." She squeezed Emma's hands affectionately. "Dis here is our home. We don' wanna leave Basil, or even you and Master Knox. He's always been good to us. Makes sure we got shoes in de cold, even gave us dem turkeys for last Christmas."
Emma recalled the turkeys. She knew such offerings were bittersweet for Knox since the Uprising, but he continued his gifts in order to lighten the malicious authority exercised by George Napier. Before the tragedy of both the Uprising and the addition of Napier to the plantation, Knox had often been accused of treating his slaves too well. In the present political climate, turkeys for slaves at Christmas would rile fellow Southerners and threaten Knox's good standing.
"Ain't nothin' wrong here, 'cept dat Mr. Napier," Tilda said. "Weez all know he's de reason Basil bein' gone. Weez knows Master Knox — and your daddy — ain't like dat."
She took Emma's hand and pressed a root and leaves into her palm. Tilda specialized in herbal remedies and nursed the ill-stricken on the plantation. Her peppermint broth soothed upset stomachs, and her mustard plasters eased a cold. Emma, ignoring her mother's reservations, preferred Tilda's teas and plasters over Doc Hadley's sludge-like elixirs.
"Make dat into tea. May help ye back." Tilda swallowed hard and hung her head. "You done suffered enough."
Emma's hand trembled.
"Prolly best you keep away from here, Miss Emma. Don't want no mo' trouble fo' you. Basil wouldn' either."
Emma knew Tilda was right. Hers would be an unwelcome presence now, the public beating had seen to that. Despite the fact she had suffered too, she would be shunned in the rice fields and Quarters alike, greeted with bent-down heads and silence.
Emma couldn't look at Tilda. "Please don't hate me."
"Aw, chile, ain't no one a blamin' you. You always been good to all of us, helpin' in de fields, carin' for de li'l ones at times, and I knowed you wanted to help Basil, wanted to give him a chance rest of us don' have. Ain't no hatin' you fo' dat." Fresh tears glided down her cheeks. "He wid de Lawd now. He free now."
The words hit Emma like another lash to her back.
"I won't let him die for nothing," Emma said. "It won't be for nothing."
CHAPTER TWO
Walking through the patch of trees that separated the Quarters from the house grounds, Emma felt weak from grief and shameful for the sensation of relief. Tilda had not chided her, had not unleashed bitterness toward her. Emma would have to find a way to feel comfort in Tilda's forgiveness, and someday, Emma would have to forgive herself.
Her aches and eagerness for her bed grew when the house came into sight, but someone grabbed Emma from behind. Leathery hands covered her mouth as she was dragged into the nearby stable, kicking and struggling. Once inside, the horses stirred from the sounds of Emma's stifled protests. Her captor took her to an empty stall, turned her around and struck her face. She was then shoved backward and into a pile of hay.
"Running off to see your little coons. What would your granddaddy say about that?"
Emma swiped her hair from her face and saw George Napier standing over her.
"Never gonna learn, are you, girl? Stubborn, ain't ya?" He bent on one knee, then leaned over and ran his hand over Emma's bare leg. "I like that."
She kicked away his hand.
"Get away from me!"
"Just settle down, now. You're gonna do just like I say and be real nice, else I'll have to wake up your granddaddy, tell him what you been up to."
Emma rolled off the hay and made a lunge for an escape. George grabbed her around the waist and forced her back down. He fell on top of her and pressed his weight into her while he fiddled with the button on his trousers. Emma yelped from the impact as the straw poked into her.
"Yeah, go ahead 'n wrestle around. Better for me that way."
She smacked him, pounded him in the back to no avail. His hat toppled off. A thin patch of his brownish-red hair flopped in front of his face. Emma clawed his bare head.
George cursed and snatched Emma's hands. With one hand he clutched both wrists. His whiskey and cigar-laced breath nauseated Emma. A weak yell escaped her. George grunted his satisfaction. He lifted his head, a smarmy smirk across his face.
"I been waitin' for this a long time," he said. "You're mine now."
Emma's mind flashed to every inappropriate touch and salacious stare George had helped himself to since stepping foot onto the Cartwright property over a year ago. She had fended off his advances — and kept him from Sylvia — but he had cornered her in the barn once. Drunk, as he typically was by day's end, he had pressed himself against Emma and licked the side of her neck. The sudden entrance of Emma's grandfather had foiled his intentions.
Now, Emma gasped at the sound of a whack.
George stared blankly for an instant, then slumped into the hay.
Henry stood a few feet away, a piece of wood in his hand. He reached down and pulled Emma up. "You okay, Miss Emma?"
She nodded. "How did you…"
"Mamma woke me. Wanted you to get in all safe. Never know what's in dem woods."
"Snakes, apparently." Emma kicked George in the gut with her bare foot. "Wish we could drag him down to the marsh, let the gators find him."
"I take him der myself." Henry's chest expanded. Standing well over six feet and thick as the trunk of a mighty oak, Henry had muscles stacked on top of each other from a lifetime of hard labor. When it was time to thresh the rice, Henry manned the flail for long, hot hours. His massive hands could snap the head off a chicken before it had a chance to squawk. Born on the Cartwright plantation more than twenty years ago, Henry had fended off a gator in the marsh once and took pride in keeping an eye on his younger brother. Other slaves revered Henry, though he was also known for bad bouts of temper.
He took a step toward George's limp body.
"No, Henry, we can't. That's
not us. We're not like him. Besides, it won't bring Basil back."
The hatred in Henry's eyes softened at the mention of his brother.
"But I have an idea." Emma grinned.
They scrambled and dumped George at a strategic location near the front of the house. With his trousers still loose and drooped around his ankles, George Napier and his glaring white rump waited to greet the rising sun.
****
Much of the Cartwright household erupted in the early morning hours, due in large part to Olivia's discovery of George's rear end on the other side of her bedroom window. Emma's brother Quinn did the honors of rousing George with a bucket of water.
"Maybe Granddad will get rid of him now," Sylvia said. Wearing the new lilac dress Olivia had brought in the room yesterday, she danced and twirled around while Emma dealt with a lack of sleep. She wished she hadn't dropped the root and leaves Tilda had given her, as her body aches ramped up.
"Maybe he'll leave." Emma did not believe that. In fact, she worried that last night's incident would only heighten his determination to trap her and have his way with her once and for all. She understood men like George Napier, and she knew Knox had hired him in a moment of desperation and weakness. After the Uprising, Knox had wanted to send a firm message to the slaves and to reestablish the lines between master and slave. Though he had never raised a hand against a slave, Knox overlooked George's cruel treatment.
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