He reached for the chamber pot. “I got things need doin’.”
She held out a hand to stop him. “Ketch, you gotta take care o’ yo’self. What we gunna do if…?” She couldn’t even say it around the lump that solidified in her throat. “Go see de ship’s doctor. Please?”
He coughed again, the spasm bending his powerful frame.
“Please?” she pleaded.
He nodded. “Soon as I get back.”
The afternoon passed slowly. Larkin fussed, giving Lizzie something to think about other than her own discomfort, but Robin lay moaning on the bunk, popping up occasionally to empty the contents of his stomach. Lizzie managed to hold down her nausea, but she didn’t touch the bread. The plate eventually fell to the floor and slid back and forth with the motion of the ship. Even the wide-bottomed pitcher toppled, spilling the last of their water. She wedged the trunk between the wall and the support post of her bed at such an angle that it held the chamber pot in place.
Ketch didn’t come back that evening. Nor did he show up the next morning. Still the ship pitched and rolled. A peek out the porthole showed thick cloud cover but no rain. No storms. Just the dull, monotonous grayness of winter. It wasn’t the weather that kept Ketch away.
By evening, worry claimed Lizzie’s thoughts. Robin was showing signs of dehydration, and she would need water soon, too, if she was to continue to nurse Larkin. Hunger was becoming another issue. Her nausea had finally subsided, giving way to a gnawing emptiness. But mostly she feared for Ketch. If he’d been able, he would have come to them by now.
Darkness fell. She’d grown nearly desperate enough to venture out and seek help when a knock sounded at the door. Not Ketch’s soft tap, but a firm, authoritative rapping. Instantly wary, she closed Robin in the trunk, swaddled Larkin so no skin showed, donned her veil and gloves, and wrapped a blanket around herself to aid in the illusion of illness. She opened the door then stepped back to grip the end of her bunk feebly.
She could see nothing but the faintest glimmer of light coming from somewhere in the hall.
“Mrs. Theodore, I am First Mate John Sharp.” The voice sounded kind and patient. “I’ve been sent to tell you your Negro is quite ill. He’s belowdecks with Dr. Anderson. Lung fever, I’m told. Not unheard of in cases of smoke inhalation. I assure you he’s receiving the best of care.”
Lizzie only partially feigned the tremor that coursed through her body. Her own mother had died of pneumonia. In the cold, damp hold of a ship, what chance of recovery did Ketch have?
“My dear lady, please sit down before you fall.”
She felt him take her arm and ease her to the edge of her bunk.
He sniffed. “I will send someone to empty your chamber pot immediately. Is there anything else you need?”
“Water,” she whispered, trying to conform her tongue to the dialect of a white woman and hoping the softness of her answer hid any inaccuracy.
“Certainly. And food?”
“Please.”
“Very well. I’ll see it gets done. And I’ll make sure you receive word if your Negro’s condition should change.”
Lizzie maintained her composure while a rough-spoken sailor tended the assigned tasks then returned with a thick sandwich. But hunger had abandoned her. As soon she locked the door behind him, she curled up on her bunk with Larkin clutched to her chest. Her body trembled. Tears leaked out the corner of her eye and traveled over the bridge of her nose to the pillow below.
What would she do if Ketch died? She needed his strength. Without him, their flight would be in jeopardy. But Lizzie knew her fears went far beyond the immediate. If she lost Ketch, the next forty years would stretch before her like a vast, bleak wasteland.
He had not vocalized any formal commitment to her, but her soul heard the words his lips hadn’t yet spoken. A bond such as theirs didn’t always require the convention of speech. They’d been introduced when he retrieved her body from the woods after a brutal rape. Their affection germinated as she nursed him back from a ruthless flogging. And even as a child of violence grew within her belly, their love had solidified and deepened. They had agonized together, bled together, escaped together. Their souls were sealed by the sacrament of suffering.
If Ketch succumbed to illness, Lizzie’s heart would die with him.
2
Ketch had not returned by the time the Hornbill docked in Philadelphia four days later. Lizzie paced the length of her cabin as the sounds of disembarking passengers and the offloading of cargo echoed through the ship. Freedom awaited on the far side of the gangway, so close, so long in coming, yet its attainment was bittersweet.
As of yesterday, Ketch had been holding his own. She’d heard nothing since.
After an eternity of uncertainty, the first mate sought her out. “Mrs. Theodore, your uncle has failed to meet the ship. However, the captain was given a sum of money to see to your well-being. I have arranged transportation for you and your Negro to temporary lodging while you wait for your uncle’s arrival. I am told you have his address?”
She retrieved the letter of introduction from the top of her trunk.
“Would you like me to find a courier to deliver this?”
“Yes, please,” she whispered.
“Very well. I’ll also send along the address of the inn where he can retrieve you. If your belongings are in order, I’ll see you on your way.”
Robin was already locked in the trunk, safely under the effects of another dose of laudanum, and the baby was bundled against the weather. She nodded her agreement and soon found herself being carried off the ship and placed inside a cab. The trunk was lashed to the roof and Ketch helped aboard beside her. Lizzie had to stop herself from wrenching off her veil to check his condition.
“Fare thee well, Mrs. Theodore,” Mr. Sharp called as the cab lurched into motion. “I hope you find a remedy for your vision.”
She waved her hand in a gesture of thanks and held herself in position like a coiled spring. As the vehicle drew them away from the dockside, Larkin began to squirm in protest of her too-tight grip. They turned a corner and Ketch’s hand found hers, engulfing it completely. “You can relax,” he whispered. “De ship outta sight, but keep yo’ veil on.”
A sob caught in her throat. “Oh, Ketch, I been so worried!”
He squeezed her hand. “We free, Lizzie.” She could hear the wonder beneath his wheezy whisper. “You an’ me an’ de children, we free.”
At his words, joy swept upward from her feet and swallowed her in one gigantic gulp.
Then he coughed.
Deep, chest-rattling convulsions rocked the cab and awakened Larkin, who set up a squalling beneath his blanket. Lizzie did her best to soothe him, but her thoughts were focused on the man at her side. Ketch was not yet out of danger.
The inn was only a short drive from the waterfront. When they arrived, Lizzie supported Ketch to the entrance, and he guided her blind steps as the baby screamed between them. If the cabbie thought it peculiar that the woman who had been carried off the ship was now bearing the weight of a huge black man, he said nothing. He merely carried the trunk into the hotel, deposited it beside the desk, and left without a word.
“May I help you?” a woman asked in the strange accent of the North. Her words had so many precise corners they could have stood on end—if not for their downward slope of disapproval.
Still propping Ketch upright, Lizzie had lost the advantage of a weak whisper. Larkin’s wails would make that impractical anyway, so she tried to mimic Emily’s speech. “I would like a room for myself and one for my manservant. He’s ill.”
Ketch listed to one side as though to confirm her words.
“Well for heaven’s sake, sit him down before you fall.”
Ketch stumbled toward a chair, dragging Lizzie with him. She helped him sit then faced the woman, straining to see her through the veil. “It’s true you allow Negroes?”
“I have three small rooms in back that I let out to C
oloreds, yes.”
The white heat of panic suddenly crept up Lizzie’s neck as she realized she and Ketch had no money. None. Emily had slipped several bills to the captain before their departure, but she’d given nothing to Lizzie. It was an oversight that could cost Ketch his life.
Not that Confederate money would have done them any good here.
“Would you like me to see you to your rooms?” the woman prompted.
Struck dumb in her agitation, Lizzie simply stood in the center of the room and jostled the baby up and down.
“Two rooms, one night each. That’s what the gentleman from the ship said. You are Mrs. Theodore, are you not?” she asked with a trace of impatience.
“I—I have no money.”
“The gentleman has already paid.”
Lizzie fought to stay upright, so great was her relief.
One night.
Even if the letter didn’t reach Emily’s uncle quickly, they would be safe tonight.
“I’m Mrs. Farney. I’ll see you each to your rooms.” The woman’s voice grew tart. “Unless, of course, you’d like to join your husband in his.”
The air in the room solidified, locking Lizzie in place.
“Come on out from beneath there, Mrs. Theodore. I can tell from your speech you’re neither white nor local. Besides, your baby has uncovered himself.”
Slowly, Lizzie lifted the veil and met the innkeeper’s eyes. They were as cool and gray as her hair. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’ve been—”
The woman held up a hand and her lips went flat. “I need only know that you are paying customers.”
Lizzie dropped her eyes and nodded her head, wishing desperately that she’d taken more care. Would the woman keep her word? Or would she contact the authorities when Lizzie’s guard was down? Lizzie felt like a hen in a fox den.
Ketch spoke up for the first time, his voice hoarse. “De rooms for blacks and whites, dey cos’ de same?”
“They do.”
“Den it be okay if we trade de second room fo’ an extra night?”
“That would be fine. Come. Your room is this way.”
Lizzie glanced back at the trunk apprehensively. Ketch was managing to follow Mrs. Farney on his own strength, so she tucked the screaming infant in the crook of one arm and reached down to grab the handle.
The innkeeper guided them around a corner and down a short hallway, stopping to open the door to a small, neat room containing only a bed and a bureau. Lizzie dragged the trunk in behind them and shoved it in a corner just as Ketch eased himself onto the bed and erupted in another fit of coughing.
“Consumption?” Mrs. Farney guessed.
“Lung fever.” Lizzie swung Larkin to her shoulder, mildly out of breath.
“Has he seen a doctor?”
“De ship’s doctor tended him.” A glance at the bed showed Ketch already closing his eyes in sleep. The cab ride had taxed him to his limit.
“Laudanum would ease him somewhat,” Mrs. Farney stated. She didn’t offer any. “Your lodging comes with tomorrow’s midday meal. You’ll have to take it in your room, of course. I can’t have whites and blacks at table together, but I’ll see that you eat.”
Lizzie made a conscious decision to be grateful. They’d been granted lodging, and Lizzie had her own vial of laudanum. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She had no choice but to trust this woman.
When the innkeeper was gone, Lizzie propped open the lid of the trunk. Robin still slept inside. She brushed the back of two fingers across his forehead before reaching carefully in the corner where she had hidden the precious medicine. She would administer it as soon as she tended Larkin.
She lay down with her back to Ketch and let the baby nurse. His frantic cries subsided into hiccups and finally into the contentment of suckling. A single, jewel-bright tear still hung in the corner of his eye. Lizzie caught it on her thumb and kissed his fuzzy head. Only then, as the pressures of the harrowing week melted into weariness, did it occur to her how much more intimate their situation had just become.
She was sharing a bedroom with Ketch.
Under the circumstances, Lizzie didn’t know what else they could have done, but a vague uneasiness gripped her. A fear deep, deep down in her belly. It wasn’t distrust. Ketch was the most honorable man she knew. His barest touch might send goosebumps rippling across her flesh, and his kisses could spiral the thoughts right out of her head, but he had never pushed her beyond that. The day would come. Someday they would marry, and Ketch would have expectations, and she couldn’t possibly predict how her mind and body would respond against the backdrop of one single, horrible memory. The thought made her break out into a prickly sweat.
But it would not be this night. A glance behind showed her that Ketch had moved into a state of delirium, muttering quietly to himself as his eyes rolled in his head. His lungs rattled, and his face glistened with fever. She shifted to reach a hand back and laid it on his chest, watching it rise and fall with his labored breaths. She could feel the heat through his shirt.
Her muscles tensed. She must get his fever down.
When Larkin finished eating, Lizzie dropped her pillow to the floor and lay the sleeping infant on it, away from Ketch and his restlessness. Then she buttoned her gown and closed her fingers around the glass vial. She had no drinking glass, but the pitcher on the bureau held water.
Gently, she nudged Ketch awake. He began coughing immediately then peered at her through dull, bleary eyes. “I got medicine,” she told him. “Open yo’ mouth.”
He obeyed, and she tipped in a dose directly onto his tongue.
He promptly gagged.
She gave him the pitcher and he drank a long pull before handing it back.
“Now take yo’ shirt off. I gotta cool you down.”
He stared at her blankly until she began tugging at it, then heaved it over his head.
The garment stank. Travel-stained and ragged, it was the only one he had with him. It needed to be laundered, but first she’d clean the sweat and grime from his body. Unlike her, he hadn’t had the luxury of wash water aboard ship.
The bureau held a porcelain basin as well as a tin of soft soap, a washcloth, and a towel. Ketch didn’t complain as she lathered his chest and arms. Truthfully, he seemed only half-conscious. But she was fully aware of the sleek muscles beneath her hands—and of the response they elicited within her own body. Admiration bubbled up like suds in a hot-boiling cauldron.
How could she fear the very thing she so desired?
Robin roused from slumber and poked his head over the edge of the trunk. “Lizzie, where are we?”
She smiled at him. “You can come out, baby. We safe at a hotel.”
He climbed onto the bed where he watched her wipe the lather from Ketch’s chest. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Bathin’ yo’ daddy.”
“Will it make him better?”
“Sho’ will.” She worked quickly, rolling Ketch onto his side to reach the taut, scar-laced flesh of his back. By the time she finished, his body felt cooler and the laudanum had begun to take effect. She guided his legs beneath the bed coverings and tucked the blanket around his shoulders.
Wringing out the cloth, she hung it through the handle of the pitcher. “I gotta go fetch mo’ water, Robin. You get de book out and practice yo’ letters while I gone.” She waited till he was firmly planted on the bed before leaving the room.
A brief exploration revealed a well pump in the backyard. The water was bitter cold, but it would serve her purpose. She carried the clean, refilled basin inside and washed out Ketch’s shirt, Robin’s extra clothing, her undergarments, and two soiled diapers. Then she bathed a protesting Robin. Her tasks required several trips to the backyard. By the time she finished, the laudanum had smoothed Ketch’s ragged breathing into a deep, even cadence.
She brushed a hand across his forehead. It was still damp, but he slept soundly.
Tucking Larkin into the trunk, she climbed beneath
the covers next to Robin and let herself taste the first sweet flavor of freedom—of knowing that nobody could steal her children, or Ketch, or the privacy of her own body. She spread those thoughts across her spirit like a balm. Uncertainties remained, and a long road still stretched before them, but they could wait till morning. For now, she just wanted to revel in her first night on Northern soil. With Robin still paging through his book beside her, she drifted into the untroubled sleep of exhaustion.
***
They slept late the next morning, the first time Lizzie ever experienced the pleasure. She stretched luxuriously, enjoying the novelty of daylight streaming through the window before rising to check on Ketch. Gingerly, she touched his face. His fever still raged, and his breathing had resumed its raspy, uneven gait. She woke him and administered another dose of laudanum, then stood in the center of the room and wondered what to do until Mr. Blaine arrived.
If he arrived.
The troubles she had deflected the night before found their mark. They had made it to Philadelphia, but they had no money, no food, and nowhere to go. They didn’t even have Mr. Blaine’s address. She gazed lovingly at her two little boys. Robin had curled up next to the heat of his father’s body, and Larkin still slept in the trunk after an early morning feeding. The weight of responsibility fell heavily on her shoulders. What if Marse Preston sent someone to pursue them? What if Ketch didn’t recover? And why, oh why, hadn’t she written down Mr. Blaine’s address before she let Mr. Sharp send that letter?
She sent up a prayer for strength and footnoted it with a plea for a doctor.
That afternoon, Robin lay on the bed listlessly tossing a stocking into the air and catching it. Lizzie wished she could take him outside for a few minutes of fresh air and sunshine, cold as it was, but she simply didn’t dare risk discovery. Ketch had just let loose with another fit of coughing when the door inched open and Mrs. Farney peered inside. “Mrs. Theodore?”
Lizzie’s eyes went wide. If the woman had knocked, Lizzie had not heard it. Now there was no way Mrs. Farney could miss Robin.
Ella Wood Novellas: Boxed Set Page 2