Paul rubbed his chin. “I know. I’m thinking I ought to go this time. Assess the increased danger. Sure hate to leave right now, though.”
“Yeah, boss. We need you here.”
Emma went down to breakfast after she was sure Paul was gone. She’d determined to avoid him until she heard back from Charlotte about her proposed visit. Her presence was obviously uncomfortable for Paul, and it was unrealistic to suppose he’d tell her the truth if he were having an affair. God might be disappointed in her for giving up, but she didn’t know how to continue.
In the meantime, she’d make garments for the poor and send them with Beulah to the women’s sewing circle. But she wouldn’t make plain, drab things. She’d make beautiful clothes as if sewing for her own children—but not because of pride this time. She’d do it for the sake of the poor. To give them the joy of having something pretty. She’d pour her love into the dresses, and then when she was with her daughters, she would relieve her emptiness by caring for them.
There was one more thing she’d do before she left. She had no peace about it, but she couldn’t leave without knowing whom Paul was seeing. She was not deluded into thinking it would make any difference between them, but she wanted to know.
Likely she’d find answers at the mill, upstairs in his office.
Chapter 9
Paul stuffed papers from his library desk into a leather case. “Yes, I’m leaving. It can’t be helped.” The words came easily to Paul because they were true. It was a bad time to be absent from the mill, but he couldn’t in good conscience send anyone else. The increased pressure from bounty hunters meant he needed to assess the new dangers, perhaps establish a new route or reevaluate the whole process. Even so, Emma’s stoic expression surprised him.
“I understand. The fire destroyed the cotton bales and we need more.” Emma’s chin lifted. “How long will you be gone?”
“Ten days at least, perhaps as long as a fortnight.” Why wasn’t she asking for them to talk now, before he left? The previous night, when they were together in the library, the same room they occupied now, she’d begged him to talk. He didn’t want to then, and certainly didn’t want to now, but what had changed? What had been so important then that no longer mattered? He assumed she wanted to ask about the woman’s voice she’d heard in his office, and he was happy to avoid the topic, but why had she dropped it?
“I hope you have a pleasant trip. The weather has turned quite chilly; you might want to pack extra warm clothes.”
“Yes, thank you, dear, for the reminder.” Paul’s eyes sought her face, but she was looking down as if to avoid him.
“I suppose you have a lot to do to get ready. I shan’t keep you.” Emma hurried from the room.
Since Catherine’s wedding day, Emma had been seeking him out. It had made him uncomfortable, but now that she was pulling away from him, he was more uneasy. Something wasn’t right. Perhaps he should speak with her before he left after all.
Emma released the breath she’d been holding and sank onto the parlor chair. She’d succeeded in keeping her composure in Paul’s presence. The entire time she wanted to ask him who his mistress was, and if the Jezebel was going with him. But she’d held her tongue and responded with civility. She’d not beg him to talk again.
He was leaving in the morning. She could avoid him that long.
The less contact she had with him, the easier it would be for her to go to New York City. Charlotte’s answer regarding the visit would likely come before he returned. She could be gone within a fortnight. But first she’d discover who his mistress was.
She’d go to the mill after he left, find the hidden room, and look for clues.
For now, she’d sew. The needle flew in and out of the flowered print chintz. She focused on making tiny, even stitches, and the garment took life.
Several hours later, she ran out of thread. She could send Beulah to town to get more, but she’d rather go herself than speak with her maid unnecessarily.
She saddled Apollo herself. The ride to town was pleasant in the afternoon sun. Autumn colors decorated the hillsides, and the smells of ripening apples and pumpkins wafted on the air. She arrived in town feeling content if not joyful.
As she entered the general store, she looked around to see who else was there. Mrs. Linde fingered a drab-brown cotton fabric. She glanced Emma’s way and nodded politely, but made no effort at conversation.
Emma blushed then chastised herself for her emotional reaction. This woman had chided Mrs. Potter for allowing her to join the sewing circle then said something about it being risky. Did everyone in the room know about her husband’s affair and feared exposing the guilty party? Was that the risk?
She caught her breath. It could be someone in the sewing circle! She glanced around the mercantile. It could be someone in the store. She fought the urge to rush out and return home as quickly as possible. Instead she examined a beautiful blue silk fabric. “Mr. Dodd, nine yards of this, please.”
As she carried her purchases to her horse, Uriah Steeple bowed from his saddle and tipped his hat. “Ah, Mrs. Trebor. How are you? Has Apollo been staying on the road?”
“Yes, Mr. Steeple. Thank you again for your help the other day. I am indebted to you.”
A silent alarm sounded to beware of this man. He had done her a great service, it was true, but why was he waiting for her outside of the mercantile? She tied her packages onto the back of her saddle and mounted. “Have a good day.”
“Oh, Mrs. Trebor, might I have a word?”
“Certainly.” She cringed as he rode his horse next to hers. She’d had no ill feelings about him when he rescued her, but his nearness now unnerved her. Apollo flexed his ears back, shook his head, and stamped.
Mr. Steeple blew out cigar smoke. “I’m in Schenectady on business, seeking a missing person for my client. I wonder, may I count on you to report to me if you see this child?” He showed her a sketch of a little Negro girl, about ten years old.
“A missing Negro?”
“Her family is devastated. They fear the worst. There are unscrupulous men about who will kidnap a child like this and sell her as a slave. It’s even happening to adults.”
Emma sighed. “I know the Fugitive Slave Law has opened the door to this kind of thing.”
Mr. Steeple shook his head. “It’s terrible, I tell you, but I’ve a talent for locating missing persons, and I take pleasure in reuniting families. So may I count on your help?”
“Certainly.” As Emma rode off, she considered Mr. Steeple’s words. Her heart felt for the child’s parents. How terrible to fear your child had been kidnapped. And how silly she felt for the distrust she had for Uriah Steeple. Then she wondered, if he was good at locating missing persons, might he be good at exposing mistresses?
Before Paul left with the wagon, he gave Mandy a note to pass on to Joe. He’d hoped to speak with Emma before he left, but she had retired to her room with a headache the previous night, and he thought it uncaring to wake her so early this morning.
As he drove the wagon southward, he let himself dream of a life with her as his partner. How fulfilling it would be to share the freedom seekers’ stories and to work together to help them. He’d need to protect her, of course. He’d not want her trapped by a bounty hunter. She was naive—too easily duped, as his own actions proved. How many husbands would be able to deceive their wives for as long as he had?
It occurred to him that he’d never heard her story of what happened all those years ago. Had her naïveté played a part then? He knew what he’d seen, but what if there was more to it? He tried to remember why he’d never asked her and came up blank.
His heart stuttered as he considered how he refused to listen to her not just the past few days, but ever since the tragedy. What if she wasn’t as guilty as she appeared? The thought stabbed deeply.
Emma remained in her room, reading her Bible and praying until she was sure Paul had left. Her prayers left her feeling tender toward he
r husband. She doubted her assumption of infidelity. Would the community esteem him so if he were having an affair? Might there be another explanation for his late-night absences and the woman’s voice? She couldn’t think of what and wished she could ask him about it.
Their lives might have been much different if he had ever asked her about her actions twenty years ago.
On her request, Beulah brought up a breakfast tray. It frustrated her that her maid didn’t believe her story, but the only real difference between then and now was Emma knew what Beulah thought, where before she’d been in the dark. She couldn’t fire her for openness when that’s what she had demanded from her.
Emma gave her credit. She’d been a faithful maid, especially considering what she’d believed all these years, and still did her job with gentleness.
After breakfasting on toast and tea, Emma gathered the tray and headed down the stairs. As she neared the kitchen, she heard the two servants talking. It was tempting to eavesdrop, but she pushed through the door without pausing. The women stopped talking immediately and faced her.
“Good morning, ma’am.” Mandy took the tray from her. As she did so, Emma saw something fall from her hand and land under a chair, but she ignored it. What did it matter if the two women passed notes? “I’ll be in the sunroom sewing,” she announced and left.
No sooner did she reach her destination than she decided she wanted another cup of tea. She returned to the kitchen. The room was empty but the note was still under the chair. Faceup. Revealing Paul’s handwriting.
Her breath caught as she picked it up. The words brought her to her knees.
The note read:
We risk detection at the mill. Have to find a new safe place. Let me know where. Hide the note with the new location in the cottonwood stump. You know which one.
So, there it was. Right in front of her. His plans to meet with someone secretly when he returned. The missive fell from her trembling hand. It fluttered to the floor, carrying her dreams with it.
Chapter 10
I don’t need the buggy today, just Apollo, please.” Emma walked to the stables herself rather than sending Mandy with the message. She could barely look at the cook, let alone speak to her. It wasn’t just that the woman didn’t believe her story, but Paul had trusted this servant to deliver his note, meaning Mandy knew about the affair. How many times had she and Beulah laughed at her behind her back over this?
She returned to the house to change into her riding clothes, but walked around to the front door, rather than face Mandy in the kitchen. The extra steps were worth it.
When she was ready, she returned downstairs and called for her lady’s maid. “If you’re going to the sewing circle today, I’ve several garments I’d like you to deliver.”
“Yes, ma’am, but I thought you were going back.”
“I’ve changed my mind. May I count on you to deliver the dresses?”
“Of course.” Beulah turned to go then paused. “Ma’am, do I still have permission to speak frankly?”
Emma stared at the black woman before her. Why not speak frankly about my husband’s mistress? Why not speak frankly about his secrets and indiscretions? The words swam in her mind, but she held her tongue. “No, Beulah. You were right before. We should keep things as they were.” Although that was not possible. She couldn’t un-know that her household staff thought her a liar and a murderer, all the while protecting her husband’s secrets.
She rode quietly to the mill, letting the crisp autumn day lift her spirits. Everywhere she looked she saw the beauty of God’s creation, and she let it minister to her. Her soul responded to the blueness of the sky, the colors of the leaves, the chirping of birds. Even if her world was falling apart, God’s faithfulness upheld her. She rejoiced in the knowledge that He loved her despite her failings and shortcomings. Experiencing God’s love and mercy helped smooth the edges off the judgment she received from others. Even if her husband couldn’t love her, God did, and that mattered more than all the husbands in the world.
Except…Even now as she rode through the forest, even as her spirit relaxed in the arms of her God, there was an unrest, and she understood its message. “Why, God?” she called aloud to the limb-crossed sky. “Why do You want me to reconcile, when he’s already chosen someone else? You saw how I tried with Beulah and Mandy—how can You ask me to keep trying?”
As the mill came into view, her questions went unanswered. Joe greeted her as she tied Apollo under the apple tree. “Hello, Mrs. Trebor. I didn’t expect you.”
That Joe was uncomfortable was obvious. Did he know about Paul’s affair as well? She had trouble meeting his eyes. “Good morning, Joe. I won’t keep you from your work. Carry on.”
“You know that Mr. Trebor isn’t here, and the mill isn’t a safe place. The machinery can be dangerous.”
“Yes, I am aware of Mr. Trebor’s absence, and thank you for the warning, but I don’t plan on running any machinery.” She’d been at the mill a number of times, so why was Joe warning her now? To dissuade her from entering?
She strode up one set of stairs and then another. On the third floor she paused outside Paul’s office, her hand shaking on the doorknob. What would she find inside? Did she really want to do this? If she found a clue to the identity of Paul’s mistress, she wouldn’t be able to go back to when she didn’t know, just like she couldn’t take back her confession to Beulah and Mandy. There were some doors, which once you walked through, you could never return the same person.
Uriah Steeple ducked around the corner as the sheriff crossed the street. He’d been in town over two weeks, and people were beginning to notice him. Not a good thing. They weren’t all as gullible as that Mrs. Trebor. He needed to speed things up. Chances were those shadows he saw in the mill window had already been transported away, but there’d be others, he was sure of it.
He’d been out to the mill a few times after work hours, but the guard was alert, and he couldn’t gain access upstairs. It was a nuisance the fire hadn’t flushed anyone out. He’d used that trick successfully a number of times. Didn’t have to worry about arson charges when the runaways appeared.
He’d kept watch on the ships in harbor as well. A couple of times a week, one or more headed up the Hudson into Canada. Those were the ones to watch, but he hadn’t seen anything suspicious. Yet.
Mrs. Trebor was his likeliest resource. Sweet and gullible, just the way he liked them. He had to be careful not to overplay his hand, but what luck that he had come across her at the side of the road when he did. Quite the damsel in distress.
He smiled and sucked on his cigar as he hid in the trees.
He’d just have to figure out a way to rescue Mrs. Trebor again. Build her confidence in him. Get her to trust him.
Paul drove slowly along the rutted road. The mules strained uphill, pulling the wagon overflowing with cotton. When they reached the top, he took a side lane and stopped near a decrepit barn. He waited in the inky black night, listening, listening. Tree branches scraped together in the breeze. Twigs snapped. Leaves crunched. Deer? Porcupines? Bounty hunters? Stumps looked like crouched men. Was someone hiding behind that rock?
After several moments, he jumped down from the wagon and led the mules to a trough. As he pumped water for them, his eyes peered into the darkness. The signs were wrong. A barred barn door meant water the mules and keep going. An open door meant pick up the freight.
The door was closed. Not barred, but not open. Blown shut by the wind? Unbarred by a hunter on to their scheme? Waiting inside? Outside?
He couldn’t just ride on. Not if there were freedom seekers inside without food or water. As the mules drank, he approached the barn door. It creaked loudly as he opened it. He lit his lantern and entered, lifting the scant light to illuminate the dark corners.
A whisper reached his ears. Someone was there. But who? A freedom seeker or a bounty hunter? He pretended to look for oats in stacked grain bags as he tied a blue handkerchief around his nec
k—the signal to let any runaway know he was the next conductor.
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. “Is it safe?” Whispered words carried hope.
Paul put a finger to his lips. Something felt wrong. He held up his palm as if to say stop and went back outside. The mules had stopped drinking. Their upright ears twitched, and they looked to the south of the barn.
Could be a deer.
Or not.
He led the mules away from the trough and backed the wagon into the barn. A figure moved as silently as a shadow toward him. Paul handed him a canteen and a bag filled with biscuits. Then the runaway crawled into the false bottom of the wagon. The process took less than two minutes.
A boot scuffed the ground outside. Paul whirled around. “Who’s there?”
Chapter 11
Emma opened the office door and stepped inside. The desk was as tidy as the one in Paul’s study at home. She searched the closet first—where the woman’s voice had come from. She saw no door, but there had to be.
Emma felt along the sides of the wall, along the floor. She stood on a stool to feel higher up on the wall and then the ceiling. And that’s where it was. Click. The secret door opened.
It was not what she expected. Certainly not a lovers’ nest. There was a mattress on the floor, a table with four chairs, two candles, and a washstand. Nothing more. No windows. No carpet. Nothing remotely romantic.
But it was a secret room. And there had been a woman in it.
She took her time searching the room and Paul’s office, but found nothing suspicious.
As she rode from the mill, Emma gave Apollo his head. She couldn’t imagine a mistress being satisfied with such a meager room. Whoever it was would know Paul could provide much better accommodations. She prayed, “What does it mean, Father?”
The Underground Railroad Brides Collection: 9 Couples Navigate the Road to Freedom Before the Civil War Page 5