* * *
“What do you mean, he wants her back?” said Hatsepha, her hands flying to her head.
We were sitting in James’s library, the German girl having brought us tea. Books that James would have devoured as a youth in Ireland now lined the shelves in rectitude.
James’s hair was threatening to break loose from its lacquer. “I do not understand. Is she or is she not his property?”
“For goodness’ sakes, James, she’s been living here for the better part of a decade.”
“But what of her hair business?” James said. “You said she was to buy herself.”
“Evidently,” I said, and not with a little regret, “my husband sent all the money back to Eugene.”
Sunlight filtered through casements struck the table. Anchored by a paperweight shaped like a ship was an essay by a man named Emerson.
James tapped his hand on the top of his desk. “If you ask me, this meddling with slavery is best left to others. We are barely out of a hole ourselves.”
Earlier that year, the markets had crashed, triggering off a selling spree of land and shares, forcing businesses into bankruptcy and families into poverty. Were it not for James’s ability to purchase materials at scale along with his insistence on paying in cash, Givens and Sons might have been another casualty, but the business was surviving thanks to the abundance of cheap labor and the bargain price of materials.
“Oh, I’m tired of hearing about it,” said Hatsepha. “You’d think we could hold on to one little maid.”
I raised my eyebrow at James. “So you think championing the girl is bad for business?”
James rose from his desk and paced. He studied a set of scales as if they might reveal the relative weights of morality, commerce, and Hatsepha’s hair. “Were I to intervene, it cannot be traced back,” he said. He puffed his cheeks like thunderclouds. “I suppose Eugene, too, has been caught up in this infernal panic. Why else would he suddenly be interested in retrieving the girl?”
The panic had brought down a number of our finest, forcing the menfolk to gather wood for fuel or animal parts for rendering. Stately houses were put on the market, where they sat shuttered and owned by the banks that were themselves on the verge of collapse. Only last May, I had run into Ariadne Mumford, who looked quite deranged in last year’s dress and a squashed hat.
“It’s the girl’s life,” I said. When James showed no reaction, I added, “Not to mention your investment in Tilly’s enterprise.” For Hatsepha had prevailed and convinced James to back the girl so that she could buy proper supplies.
James twitched.
“There is an attorney,” he said after some consideration. “You may have heard of him. Chase?”
“Salmon Chase?” He had conferred with Silas a number of times. “He has a problem with his teeth.”
“Well, this Chase seems to relish making an issue of such cases. Remember that publisher fellow? Birney?” Birney had started the paper The Philanthropist to advocate for abolition. Twice his presses were destroyed during the riots a year before. “But first let us see what your Eugene Orpheus proposes to do.” And with this, James offered his elbow to Hatsepha. She heaved herself from her chair and regally took his arm. I toyed with the idea of telling them I’d seen William, but it would beg the question of how I found myself at Enduring Hope, and it was better that they shouldn’t know.
“Until that time,” James added, almost as an afterthought, “you and Tilly shall move up here.”
* * *
I was in no rush to move back into my brother’s home. It felt like capitulation to Eugene and, in a sense, a betrayal to Silas, who had left me his small rooms and belongings.
I awoke in the wee hours to something that sounded like scurrying. I sat up in bed. “Tilly?” I was sure I saw candlelight moving along the threshold of the door. “Hello?” I said.
Alas, I moved too slowly. I pushed through the door in time to see the back of a man, his arms wrapped around the poor wretch whose eyes bulged with fear, her mouth silent beneath his hand. Too late I saw the second man who gave me a hearty shove back into my room so that I stumbled and would have fallen had I not caught myself on the bed. I rushed to the window and flung it open and called into the night for help. There were so few constables then, and had it not been for the passing vigilante in search of his cow, we would have lost her then and there, but the man interrupted the scoundrels’ flight in time for others to rush from their homes in response to the ruckus that could well have erupted into a riot had not Mayor Davies arrived, clad in a topcoat and nightshirt to protest the outrage and to set it right, though not right enough, for it resulted in the arrest of Tilly.
* * *
The court case that followed some weeks later riveted Cincinnati. Everyone rushed each day to read the headlines: “Colored Hairdresser Wrests Herself from Slavery” or “Escaped Slave Defies Law.” Rumors abounded about who was behind Tilly’s defense, with some saying it was the abolitionist banker from Indiana, others citing the First Congregational Church. It wasn’t until someone’s tongue slipped that suspicion fell on James. More rumors followed, including allegations that James was concealing runaways in empty boxes of Givens candles.
Soon the papers were identifying with certainty that James Givens, founder of Givens and Sons, was the benefactor funding one Tilly Orpheus, alleged slave, who had lived in Cincinnati since 1828 and was now a well-regarded dresser of hair, much esteemed by the fashionable ladies who thought it disgraceful that such a talented young woman should be snatched back into the jaws of the South after making herself so invaluable.
“Ariadne Mumford is particularly chagrined,” Hatsepha said as she, James, and I promenaded along the shops by the landing. “She says if Salmon Chase loses Tilly’s case, she will abscond with the girl herself.”
“And with Phinneaus running for reelection?” said James, tipping his hat at a passerby. “I hardly think so. This prurient interest in abolition is only that. It will pass with the length of a hem and these ridiculous muttonchop sleeves.”
I continued to refrain from mentioning Handsome, though I wondered what had transpired—if Erasmus had stolen him into the hills or packed him into the back of a wagon going north. Then again, Erasmus might have sold the poor man to the patrollers who were only too happy to pay the price, collecting it threefold from the owner who would beat the man to death.
“Oh dear,” said Hatsepha. Two ladies and a man had crossed the street, braving mud and manure to accost James. I recognized Enoch Breckinridge and his two sisters.
“We read the papers!” said one of the sisters—possibly the one called Minna. “Is it true? Is it going to trial?”
There was no point in James’s denying it. The best recourse was to stiffen his resolve and pretend that he had feelings on the issue.
“Ladies,” he said. “Mr. Breckinridge.” He nodded at Enoch, who was looking at James as if he were a specimen in a vitrine. “Lawyer Chase has advised us that a case can be made that the girl, having resided on free soil, is no longer subject to prior terms of ownership.”
The two sisters beamed, for I suspect they, too, owed their coiffures to Tilly. Their brother, however, pointed his finger at James. “If that’s the case, how are we to defend property held in another state whose laws may differ from our own? What about your family’s mines, sir? I believe some lie in Kentucky. Can they be confiscated in so arbitrary a manner?”
James met his gaze. “You make a case, sir. And yet . . . well, this is a human life.”
“You are on thin ice, Givens,” said Mr. Breckinridge, clearly no appreciator of hair.
I started to say, And here we are in 1838, and one would think we had come further, but Hatsepha’s fingers had clasped about my wrist like a vise.
“Let’s walk, sister,” she said, curtsying to the two women, who curtsied back.
“We think it’s marvelous, Mr. Givens,” said the one who was not Minna. “We think you are a Christian man.�
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Clearly, she had no idea how pale a compliment this was to James.
For the rest of the afternoon, James muttered to himself and glared at me. He knew it would only get worse, which, in fact, it did.
* * *
During the trial, Tilly was confined to a cell that had no mirror—just a pot and a mat along with one small window too high to reach. Without access to lanolin or sunflower oil, her hair looked so vexed that I wondered how I had ever thought she could pass as white.
The Negro inmates were relegated to the basement cells that dripped with runoff from the street. Only because James demanded it was Tilly given any privacy from the inebriates and one knife-wielding roustabout down the hall. Over and over again, I assured her that there was no finer lawyer than Chase, and that anyone with half a brain would see the common sense of her situation. The notion that she might return to servitude was laughable.
“Here,” I said, removing my cap and handing it to her. “You can cover your head with this.”
This was the second time I was allowed to see her. The first time, she had wept so fiercely that I doubted any possibility of conversation before she collected herself and inquired as to how her ladies were—Mrs. Ariadne and Mrs. Hatsepha—and had the Reed twins looked presentable at their tea dance?
But now she had a calmness that bordered on resignation. “You have been kind to me, Missus ’Livia,” she said. “Kinder than you know.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, taking in the ratty cot. “Heavens, but the smell.”
She pulled on the cap, tucking in her hair. “You remember the first time you saw me?”
Quite vividly, I told her. She had been just a girl, but she had taken charge when Julia was in childbirth.
“And you remember the next time you saw me?”
Indeed, she had looked almost this poorly and quite deranged when Silas had brought her back to Ohio. Having met Eugene, I well understood her being in such a state when Silas retrieved her in lieu of his inheritance. Tilly had been skittish and unfocused, like someone who had toppled over in a carriage. But living with Silas and me had done her a world of good, even though people talked, saying it was strange that wherever Dr. and Mrs. Orpheus went, there was that girl. “I do.”
“You ever wonder why I speak like a lady?”
“I do not. Your speech is appalling.”
She ignored this. “That tatty dress you seen me in when you first came to get your hair done? You wouldn’ta known that I’d worn clothes nice as Missus Bethany’s, seeing as they’d belonged to her and given to me when jes’ slightly used. I was ten years old when my mother took me to the big house as a plaything. They’d cleaned me up, did my hair. By the time Missus Bethany saw me, I was pretty as a picture, and I smiled, smiled, smiled as if my life depended on it. Because it did, you know. ‘Your life depends upon you being pretty,’ my mother told me. And Missus Bethany, she loved me and played with me as if I was a doll. Told me I could touch her things and sleep by her bed and sometimes in it—like I was her child. It was Missus Bethany who protected me when my daddy burdened us by running. Did he tell you that he’d hit the overseer?”
“You’re still pretty,” I said.
“You’re a bad liar, missus. With all due respect.”
Now Tilly was imprisoned and possibly doomed, while Handsome, who had hit an overseer and run away, was finding his way to freedom.
“When Mr. Silas come and get me, I was more than miserable. Like one of those banshees you told me about. That was Missus Bethany’s doing. She told me my baby died, but my baby was taken.”
I shuddered, thinking of how the Orpheuses sold off their slaves, adults and babies alike.
Tilly sighed. “And Mr. Eugene would have gotten around to me either ways. He always did.”
Something struck the grate of her cell and splashed on the floor. From the smell, I knew it wasn’t water. All week long, a crowd had been gathering, as much to shout at each other as to harass Tilly. Then there was the jailer, who said to me as he’d unlocked the door, You wouldn’t be allowed in if it weren’t for your fancy brother.
“After this is over,” I said, “James will help you out.” I didn’t add that a number of citizens had declared they would boycott James’s products, which was difficult to do since he owned just about everything one needed to light one’s house or business. “Perhaps we can move to Oberlin.”
Only four years earlier, the Presbyterian college had admitted four colored students. And now they were accepting women.
“Black women?” said Tilly, incredulously. She had a point. “You are crazy, missus. Whose hair can I do in Oberlin?”
* * *
During the three weeks of the trial, James grumbled, but continued to pay Lawyer Chase. In court, I made out Birney the abolitionist, Burnet the canal-funder, the Merricks and the Mintons, the Hookers and the Hickenloopers. It was Indian summer and warmer than usual, harking back to the days we had gathered to hear Campbell vs. Owen. Then as now, the controversy brought forth assertions regarding the Mind of God, the Curse of Ham, the Blessings of the Chosen until many who had argued for condemnation rather than compassion were moved off their position by Chase’s rhetoric that soared far higher than that of Eugene’s oily, weak-chinned solicitor, who simply harrumphed in court, thinking the matter settled.
“Chase is quite impressive,” said Hatsepha on the second day. “I think he’s harboring ambitions.”
“Then this case will surely end them.”
“Have you not noticed how he looks at you?”
“Lord,” I said, for Chase was no beauty, having a singular hairline well back of his brow. Still, he was tall, and with massive shoulders, fluid-tongued, and gifted in the law.
“Widowed,” said Hatsepha knowingly. “Three years.”
“Nor shall the Congress impose upon the state views that have no bearing on a treaty . . .” Chase went on.
“And so forth,” said Hatsepha, yawning. “I told James he should just buy Eugene off.”
Tilly wasn’t allowed in the courtroom, she being not quite a person. I thought of her tiny cell, and for once had no quibble with Hatsepha.
“I am worried Chase’s grandstanding could pose some risk to our girl,” I said.
“He’s trying to impress you,” said Hatsepha.
“He’s trying to impress his constituents,” said I, for clearly the man was convinced that abolition was on the side of the angels and saw this as an opportunity to hold forth.
And so the day progressed. “How much longer must one endure?” said Hatsepha with a sigh.
Arms were draped across the backs of benches, affording views of exaggerated sleeves and bits of lace. Pin curls and loops were poised upon heads anxiously awaiting Tilly’s liberation, while the men wore frock coats and waistcoats and sometimes showed up in britches. In spite of the temperature, the gay colors of summer were fading to winter cloth.
Chase, himself, appeared sober in a cravat and dark, collared coat. He strode back and forth in front of the bench, pounding his right hand into the palm of his left as he made the case for the freedom of those living north of the river, praising the Founding Fathers for their judiciousness in leaving treaties between individuals to the discretion of the states—in this case, Ohio, in which slavery was not legal, hence conferring upon Tilly the status of “freewoman” and under no obligation to her former master.
“She has lived for many years—eight to be exact—with Dr. and Mrs. Silas Orpheus, staying on after the death of Dr. Orpheus as a companion to Mrs. Orpheus and serving the community as a dresser of hair. She has made her own income. She has been a fixture in many of our homes. After all these years, are we to send her back with nary a pang of conscience, and to a less than happy situation in which families are broken up and tossed onto the block for sale?”
“He certainly seems to know the Orpheus household,” whispered Hatsepha.
I did not tell her that Chase had been around to inte
rview me, and that the conversation had veered off course.
I was a great admirer of your husband, Mrs. Orpheus, he said, after introducing himself and entering my flat. A true pioneer.
A man with little time, Chase shrewdly took in the books and bones, the journals and jars.
After my wife passed, he said, I put all of her dresses into the wardrobe where I couldn’t see them, but I didn’t throw them out. Someday, my daughter might want to have them.
How old is your daughter? I asked, understanding where this was headed and trying to avoid it.
Three. Only three. She was her mother’s undoing, I fear. But then, I lost my mother early. As did you, I understand. We are orphans, all of us. And yet we endure. Have you ever raised a child, Mrs. Orpheus?
Only the children of others.
I ask too many questions, he said, noting my tone. It’s my profession, I fear. Now, he said, taking a seat, perhaps you will tell me about Eugene Orpheus.
That had been three weeks earlier, and here we were in court, Salmon Chase armed with his interpretation of my domestic life, saying Tilly was my trusted servant—nay, a friend!—who had nursed me through the loss of a pregnancy (Hatsepha said, You never told me!) and, worse, the loss of my husband; that by rending us from one another and casting her back into slavery, I would be stricken, as would many women of our fair city who had enjoyed the skills of this remarkable woman who was compromised because of her race. In truth, Salmon Chase brought many to tears.
As for me, I burned with embarrassment.
Chase made his plea, catching my eye as he touched on every point of my relationship with Tilly, from the delivery of Julia’s son, my short marriage, my widowhood, my promotion of Tilly’s business, my interest in setting her free. Yet in the end, Chase’s argument rested not on my personal relationship with Tilly, but on a state’s right to dispute a treaty made between individuals.
When the verdict came, we all leaned forward, the pros on the right side of the court, the cons on the left. We were a divided city, and never so much as on that day when everything rested on the whim of a judge who smelled of brandy and whose moustache was the repository of crumbs. Perhaps that judge knew that he would lose the goodwill of half the town regardless, so when he found in favor of Eugene Orpheus and against Tilly, a collective gasp resounded, cries of victory and outrage, all of us rising to our feet, James taking my arm, the crowd so close that I couldn’t hear Chase’s protestations, Hatsepha grasping her hat, borne on a sea of gigot sleeves, pelerines, and flared skirts, everyone rushing, rushing toward the jail, some of us to bar the door, others to wrest it open.
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