Pushing the door wide, the innkeeper let herself into the room and set a tray of bread and stew on the bureau. Robin bolted upright, and her eyes immediately latched onto him. “Goodness gracious! Where did you come from?” Her eyes narrowed, darting around the room before fastening on Lizzie in disbelief. “Did you hide him in the trunk?”
Lizzie’s pulse pounded furiously. She bit her lip and nodded. Would their deception hold consequences? She wasn’t at all sure the woman wouldn’t summon the authorities.
Mrs. Farney pinched her lips together and observed the boy thoroughly before turning to Ketch. “I can hear him from the kitchen,” she stated with a terse nod in his direction. She put her hands on her hips and considered the boy again, her entire face creasing downward. After a moment of quiet reproval, she left the room without another word.
Lizzie let out her breath. Suddenly, her apprehension morphed into outrage. Mrs. Farney had all the compassion of a barn cat. How cold, how indifferent a person must be to house a sick man and leave him untended. It was the same injustice Lizzie had known in the South, wrapped up in a Northern package. She kicked the leg of the bedstead.
She muted her anger and served Robin his lunch. “Eat slowly,” she told him. “It all de food we gunna get today.”
Ketch’s fever still raged, and his cough left him weak and listless. As she and Robin ate, he drifted in and out of consciousness. In his lucid moments, Lizzie fed him bits of bread and soup and sips of water. Her hope fluctuated with his temperature.
An hour later, a knock sounded at the door. By this time, Lizzie’s anger had burned itself out, leaving cold, dead ashes. She sighed and opened the door.
A powerful wave of fumes preceded Mrs. Farney into the room. “I brought an onion, mustard, and garlic poultice. It will help Mr. Theodore’s cough.” She handed Lizzie a bowl containing an unappealing stewed mixture and a length of muslin. “Lay the cloth on his chest, slather the poultice across the top, and cover it up. It’s guaranteed to break up congestion.” Then she ducked outside and returned with a crate filled with building blocks, a toy wagon, and a wooden cup with a ball attached to a string. “These are for the boy.”
Lizzie watched, speechless, her face opening in amazement and disbelief. Then her eyes filled with tears, both from a deep sense of humbleness as well as the vapors rising from the bowl she clutched. It seemed she had misjudged the woman. “Mrs. Farney, how can I thank you?”
The woman appeared momentarily uncomfortable before her face fell back into its habitual frown. “Well, I can’t have either of them disturbing my other guests, now can I?” She backed out the door. “I’ll collect the bowl in the morning.”
As Lizzie ladled the hot mixture onto Ketch’s chest, it filled the room with a sharp, pungent odor that woke Larkin from sleep. The rest of the day passed more tolerably. Ketch’s breathing eased, his sleep deepened, and the toys entertained Robin for hours. When the sun began to set, Lizzie put the children to bed and climbed in beside Ketch, grateful for what they’d been given. But she couldn’t quell the uneasiness rising steadily inside her.
Mr. Blaine had not shown up.
***
The next morning, Lizzie awoke before dawn. Her hands trembled, and her heart beat fast and hard. In just a few hours, her family would have to leave the hotel. She paced the floor, glancing out the window with every pass, but she couldn’t have identified the man she watched for even if he did appear.
Robin awoke and went immediately to rebuild the castle he had constructed the night before. Lizzie envied his naivety and wished she could protect it forever. Would he be so content when nightfall came? Would he be warm? Safe? Fed? She wished she could discuss their options with Ketch, but he tossed on the bed, mumbling something in his sleep.
After feeding Larkin and laying him down for a nap, she made a desperate decision. She knelt down at Robin’s level and looked him in the eye. “I need you to watch yo’ daddy and Larkin fo’ me.”
“Where you goin’, Lizzie?”
“To fin’ us some help. If Larkin get restless, jus’ leave him in de trunk. But if yo’ daddy get to thrashin’, go fin’ Mrs. Farney an’ give her dis.” She handed him the vial of laudanum. “Can you do dat?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She patted his head. “You a good boy, Robin.”
She bolstered herself with a deep breath and slipped out the door before she lost her nerve.
Marking her location so she could find her way back, Lizzie began walking the city street by street, searching for…something. She didn’t even know what. A church? A Union soldier? A friendly face? She felt exposed, as if everyone could guess her secret just by looking at her. She was a runaway slave, a woman alone in an unfamiliar city, and she had no idea whom to trust.
She went first to the African Baptist church she had seen from the taxi. Could it be Saturday? There was no one inside. Next, she approached a Negro woman on the street, but the woman hustled her three children on without acknowledging her. Lizzie was stunned. Did she look so frightening? Or were people in Philadelphia just accustomed to want and deprivation? The city wasn’t far from the Maryland border. Thousands of fugitives had probably passed through in recent years.
Perhaps no one cared.
She pushed on. Another street. Another corner. Perhaps she’d stumble onto work. Or food. Or maybe she could beg a little money. She only needed enough for one more night. Just one. To look beyond tomorrow required more strength than she could muster.
A man walked by on the street. A man who watched her all the way past. She felt the prickle of apprehension, the first ghost of memory. She knew that look. A glance behind and she met his eye. He had turned in the street. He was still watching.
Her footsteps faltered as memory seized her, wrapping her in full-blown panic. It stole her thought, spurring her around a corner and down alley after alley. She ran on blindly until she lost herself in the warren of city streets. Until her legs gave out. Until she’d shaken off the blackness and left it far behind.
Awareness returned as she crouched behind a crate in the space between two buildings. Her breath came in great, heaving gulps as her spine convulsed with tremors. She had no idea where she was or how she’d gotten there. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she rocked until terror finally eased into stillness.
She stayed in her hiding place a long time. It felt safe in the alley—dark and unseen. Her head lolled to her knees. She felt thin, weak, as drawn out as wool twisted into a skein of thread. But the cold eventually bit through her clothing and set her teeth to chattering. She could not stay here forever. She had to return to the hotel. Ketch needed her. Robin and Larkin needed her. Saying their names lent her strength enough to will herself to her feet and slip cautiously from her hiding place.
It took forty minutes to find her way back.
Utter hopelessness sucked at her as she walked through the door of the hotel. She had failed. What would she tell Robin? Where would she bring Ketch? Had she come all this way only to watch him die in freedom?
As she dragged herself into the hotel lobby, a rotund man with a kind face and a white beard rose from one of the chairs. “Are you Lizzie?” He held out a hand. “My name is Timothy Blaine.”
She collapsed to her knees, releasing herself to a torrent of tears.
3
Mr. Blaine sent for a doctor immediately. Then he settled in to wait, booking a room for himself and another for Lizzie and the children when he learned that she and Ketch were not married. Mrs. Farney was thrilled with the arrangement, though she still wouldn’t allow Negroes at her table, even after a strenuous argument with Mr. Blaine. So he took his meals with Lizzie, bringing in food for breakfast and supper. He only consented to lodge in the white section of the hotel to keep the last Negro room free for others who might need it.
The morning after he joined them, Mr. Blaine returned from the market with bread and cheese and a mysterious bundle wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Call
ing Robin, he held the package before him. “Can you make any guesses as to what this might be, young man?”
The boy stood with hands behind his back and looked up at the man solemnly. “No, sir.”
“Well, you haven’t made much of an attempt. Touch it. Try to figure out what’s inside.”
Hesitantly, the boy reached for the package, running his hands along the flat top and the tall, ridged sides. His eyes grew wide.
Mr. Blaine laughed. “Someone told me you’re learning to read. It just so happens that I walked past the biggest book shop in the city this morning. Go ahead. Open it.”
Robin took the package reverently and dropped to the floor. He was careful not to tear the paper as he uncovered a stack of books on every subject from animals to steam engines to agriculture. His mouth opened in awe. “Dese all fo’ me?” he whispered.
“Every one of them.” Mr. Blaine waved a cautionary finger at him. “But you must promise to share with your brother when he gets big enough to read them.”
“I promise.”
“Very well.” The man smiled. “Then why don’t you pick your favorite, and you and I can start reading it while your mama fixes our breakfast.”
Thereafter, Mr. Blaine was a great favorite with Robin. While Lizzie was busy tending Ketch or Larkin, Robin happily spent his time with “Unca Timothy,” working through the stack of books, drawing pictures on a brand-new sheaf of paper, or romping through the city with the old gentleman on some excursion or another.
Lizzie wept at the man’s kindness. She caught him that evening after he had tucked Robin into bed. “I be so grateful to you, Mr. Blaine, but you doin’ too much. We got nothin’, no way we ever can repay you.”
“Then you have learned the definition of grace,” he said, patting her hand.
She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I was so scared. I don’ know what woulda happened to us if you hadn’t come.”
“I’m just sorry it took me so long. I was away when your letter came and overlooked it upon my return. When I read it, I left posthaste. I regret that I caused you a whole day of worry.”
“It be enough you came.”
Ketch’s fever broke on the third morning, and the doctor declared him out of danger. But it was another day before he received approval to undertake the eighty-minute drive to Mr. Blaine’s farm, and then only if he remained well covered and took special pains to keep his feet warm.
They packed into Mr. Blaine’s carriage. It had a double row of seats, a canvas top, and open sides. After a week of rain, they prepared for a chilly ride, but the sun broke through the clouds and turned the day warm as spring. Even so, Lizzie was careful to wrap Ketch thoroughly. Then she settled beside him with the baby on her lap. Robin perched on the driver’s seat and Mr. Blaine wedged the trunk beneath the boy’s feet. “Everyone ready?” he asked, taking up the reins.
Lizzie nodded, her heart full. There was so much to share with Ketch about the week and a half, but she would do it later, in private. For now, she simply held his hand, grateful to bursting that he was there beside her and not buried in a pauper’s grave.
As the city diminished into the rolling brown fields of the countryside, Mr. Blaine tossed a smile over his shoulder. “Does anyone know what day it is?”
Lizzie exchanged an astonished look with Ketch. It couldn’t be! But the way Robin wiggled on his seat in anticipation confirmed it.
“Christmas!” the boy burst out.
“And do you know what a carriage ride on Christmas Day requires?” Mr. Blaine asked with a wink.
“Christmas carols!”
The man chuckled and rubbed Robin’s head. “And do you know any Christmas carols, my enthusiastic little friend?”
“Yes, sir. I know four.” The boy held up the same number of fingers.
“Well then, I believe we should sing them for our fine passengers. Don’t you?”
The pair of them burst into the first verse of “Joy to the World.” Lizzie smiled at their rehearsed theatrics. Mr. Blaine must have taught Robin the songs on one of their outings. It pleased her to see the child acting like the happy, carefree little boy he deserved to be.
She rested her head against Ketch’s shoulder and closed her eyes, listening to Robin’s clear, high notes ring out above the man’s rich baritone. A gentle breeze touched her cheek and stirred the moist aroma of sleeping soil into the air. She sighed. She was surrounded by her loved ones, tasting the first sweet flavors of freedom. Never before had she felt so utterly content.
Never before had she felt so entirely human.
The trip passed quickly. Though Ketch still coughed, the spasms had lost their deadly grip.
Mr. Blaine lived in a brick house set on a quaint little farm. As he guided the horses up the drive, Lizzie thought the outbuildings hung together like a clan of happy children—a bit shabby but all the merrier for it. So different from the pompous show of Southern plantations.
“I suppose I should tell you I don’t live alone,” Mr. Blaine said as he pulled up next to the house. “Jane and Clyde Phillips are my former employees and two of my oldest friends. It’s just the three of us. They’ll get you situated while I put the horses away.”
At that moment, the door burst open and a heavyset, gray-haired woman bustled onto the porch wiping her hands on her apron. She was followed closely by her husband. Lizzie blinked in surprise. The couple was black.
“Jane,” Mr. Blaine called, “these are Ketch and Lizzie and their two children, Robin and Larkin. Ketch has been quite ill, and I fear we’ve taxed his strength. Would you please find him a room?”
“I already have one ready.” Jane smiled at them both. “It’s so nice to meet you.” Then she spotted Larkin. “Oh, look at this precious little one. May I take him for you?”
“Yes, please.” Lizzie climbed down and handed off the baby, then helped Ketch, who swayed on his feet. Clyde caught him from the other side and together they walked him up the porch steps.
Jane bounced the baby up and down and smiled at the child still seated in the carriage. “You must be Robin. Would you like to come inside with me?”
“Robin’s going to help me with the horses first,” Mr. Blaine said, slapping the reins against the beasts’ backs. “We’ll be along in a bit.”
Jane caught up to the others at the door and held it open as they helped Ketch inside. “All the bedrooms are on the second story. Can you manage it? Or should I make up a bed for you in Timothy’s office?”
“I can manage,” Ketch replied.
“All right. Then I’ll put you both in the guest room.”
“We’re not married,” Lizzie put in hastily.
“Well then, it looks like you’ll be in the office after all, Ketch.” Jane handed Larkin back to Lizzie. “Just give me a minute to make up your cot.”
While they waited, Clyde guided them into a parlor off the entryway. It was decorated in masculine colors with dark wood furnishings. The only exceptions to the room’s austerity were two comfortable armchairs pulled up before a cheerful fire. As she and Clyde eased Ketch into one, Lizzie’s nose twitched. “Do I smell goose roastin’?”
“Yes, you do.” Clyde chuckled. “Even if you all didn’t show up today, Jane wasn’t about to miss cooking a big Christmas dinner. But she woke up this morning convinced that you’d be here on time to eat it.”
“How’d she know?” Lizzie asked.
Clyde just shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. But she’s usually right about these things.”
***
Christmas dinner was a feast unlike any Lizzie had ever eaten. Mashed potatoes and gravy, preserved vegetables, stuffing, golden loaves, and a goose crisped to perfection—not to mention apple, pumpkin, and blueberry pies. She’d helped serve such meals, but she’d never been invited to partake of one. She hesitated at the dining room door.
“Don’t be shy, now. Come in and find a seat.” Mr. Blaine ushered Robin to the table. “You’re to sit here next
to me.”
The boy eagerly climbed into the chair. He’d already given Lizzie a lengthy, enthusiastic recital of the events in the stable, after which Mr. Blaine had taken him to see the rest of the farm. Lizzie had hardly been able to get the boy to stop talking, even when she put the baby down for a nap.
When they were all seated, Mr. Blaine said grace then rose to carve the goose. “It smells wonderful, Jane,” he complimented. One by one, he laid generous slices of meat on his guests’ plates, and the rest of the sumptuous meal was passed around. Lizzie couldn’t believe the amount of food being offered to her.
“Ketch, you’re looking stronger,” their host noted. “Did you get some rest this afternoon?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, Mr. Blaine.”
The man waved his fork in objection. “That will never do. Now that we’re away from that ridiculous innkeeper, you must call me Timothy.”
Ketch and Lizzie exchanged glances. “Sir, I don’ think we can do that,” Lizzie objected. It seemed so disrespectful. Dangerously so.
“Then how about Uncle Timothy. You look to be the same age as my niece. Would that be agreeable?”
Lizzie looked down at her plate. “Can I please call you Mr. Blaine?”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Well then, I suppose if that will make you comfortable.” He brandished his fork in her direction. “You’ll have to tell me about her. My niece, I mean. I’ve never had the chance to meet her.”
“What do you think of the North so far, Lizzie?” Jane asked from the seat to her left.
The woman reminded Lizzie of Deena, the nurse from Ella Wood, though Jane was at least a decade younger. The thought led to memories of Josephine, and Lewis, and Lottie, and a score of other faces whose absence caused Lizzie’s heart to twist. “I miss so many people from home.”
“That’s understandable. You lived at Ella Wood your entire life, am I correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Her mother had been one of the house slaves until she died when Lizzie was six. After that, Emily had become Lizzie’s family—at least until Lizzie had been taken into service and Emily was required to spend more time at her studies.
Ella Wood Novellas: Boxed Set Page 3