Michael gently led me toward the east parlor. “You sit in here, and I’ll clean it up.”
I dropped into the old chesterfield, but shook my head. “You sit, too,” I said, then added, “Please.” But before he could, the telephone rang.
“Stay,” Michael ordered. “I’ll get it.” He returned in a minute with the portable phone from the kitchen. “For you. A Mr. Dannow’s office.”
Dannow started speaking as soon as I said hello. “Just got off the phone with Steve Corr.”
“Steve Corr?”
“The lieutenant detective. Lexington police. Wouldn’t tell me much, but confirmed what you said.”
“Confirmed what I said?” I was having trouble following him.
“About the black girl, the junkie. That’s who they like.”
“Ex-junkie.”
“You’ve got to tell them about the missing bracelet.”
“Trina didn’t steal the bracelet.”
“Doesn’t matter. Still looks bad.”
“I don’t want to make it look bad for her.”
“Yes you do. They like you too. Just not as much.”
“Trina didn’t kill Gram.”
“The toxicology report is still pending and they don’t have any solid evidence against either of you—yet. Just lots of suspicion—and the bracelet would add weight to the other side. You think about it over the weekend. I’m meeting with Steve first thing Monday morning.”
“I doubt I’ll change my mind.”
“What if I told you I was going to need a 10,000 dollar retainer if Lexington goes after you?”
“Ten thousand dollars?”
“Like I said, they haven’t got any evidence, so I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it just yet.” Dannow’s voice was a bit slower and more kind. “I just want you to understand what you might be up against.” He promised to call Monday after he spoke with Corr and hung up.
I put the phone on the coffee table and looked up at Michael, who had been watching me closely throughout the conversation.
He sat down on the chesterfield and took my hand. “That was the lawyer?”
“He wants me to make Trina look bad so that I look good.”
“You already look good.”
I smiled wanly. “Oh yeah.” I glanced down at my T-shirt and jeans, at the dirt that still outlined my fingernails. “I’m looking real good.”
Michael put his arm around me and pulled me to him. “You poor kid,” he said. “You’re having one hell of a time.”
“Hey, I’m older than you are,” I said, wanting diversion, needing diversion. I leaned back and batted my eyelashes at him in exaggerated coquettishness. “Robbing the cradle, Gram would say.”
“Your grandmother wouldn’t have minded a bit.” Gram had never been shy about her opinions, and Michael was well aware of her schemes for the two of us. “She’d be thrilled if she could see us now.”
“Maybe she can,” I continued to tease, then dropped my head into my hands at my double entendre. “What does it all mean?” I mumbled. “What could it possibly mean?”
Michael raised my chin until I was looking at him. “Maybe we’re not supposed to know—and that’s why it’s so confusing.”
But I didn’t want to be confused. I didn’t want to think about the impossible being possible or missing bracelets or murder suspects or anything that wasn’t directly related to Michael Ennen and what it felt like to touch him, to be touched by him. I reached up and pressed my hand to his cheek, then I kissed him. It was a long kiss, deep and dark and swirling. It made me think of chocolate, of losing myself, of swimming in thick, rich candy. When it was over I knew I was going to make love to this man, that he was going to make love to me.
I stood and took his hand. I led him up the stairs and into my bedroom.
“I’ve imagined being here with you like this,” Michael said gruffly, and I realized that I had imagined it too. He pressed his lips to the soft spot at the base of my throat, and I moaned. “Let’s go slow,” he said. “Real slow.”
When Michael and I finally fell asleep the clock was moving toward three. I didn’t want the night to end, but exhaustion overcame me, and I fell into that deep, delicious sleep of the truly contented. I was so relaxed, so weighted by the luxurious heaviness of slumber, that I knew I must be dreaming when I heard his voice.
“Sarah.” The voice was deep and filled with pain. “I can’t find you.”
He stood at the foot of my bed, his skin the color of milk chocolate, his cheekbones high, his eyes full of intelligence and anguish. He had a bewildered gentleness—almost a boyishness—about him, and he seemed to be lost. He was, and wasn’t, the man I had seen in my dreams.
“I’ve lost my charm bag,” he told me, pointing at the open neck of his shirt. “I don’t know where I am.”
I looked over at Michael, but he was out cold. So I sat up, pulling the sheet with me to cover my nakedness. “You’re still at Harden House.”
“But then where are you?”
“I’m at Harden House, too.”
He shook his head sadly. “You and I are not in the same place anymore. I want us to leave for Kansas Territory, I’m ready to go now, but I don’t know how to find you. Tell me where you are,” he pleaded. “Tell me so I can come get you.”
“I have your charm bag,” I said.
He appeared puzzled, as if remembering but not remembering, grasping at something that didn’t make sense. “I gave it to you?” he asked, and as he spoke, something cold fell over his features. Something that scared me.
“I think you gave it to Sarah,” I told him, despite the dread growing within me. I was remembering and not remembering too, reaching toward the knowledge of a fleeting fragment, but not able to catch it. I wanted to know. And I wanted him to know.
“You are Sarah,” he insisted, his jaw tightening, his eyes flashing steely and hard.
I looked down at Michael, hoping for help, but there was none. I took a deep breath. “I think you gave your charm bag to Sarah right before you died.”
“Died?” His question rumbled low in the back of his throat.
“Yes,” I whispered through my fear.
“I am not dead!” he bellowed at me, every muscle of his body, every emotion of his soul, fueled with fury. “I’m as alive as you are!”
I scuttled backward on the bed, away from him, afraid of him, of what he might do to me. Then, slowly, tentatively, I reached my hand out to touch this man who had come searching for Sarah, and had, instead, found his own death.
But my fingers closed on nothing. He was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
June 7, 1868
Caleb has been trying to cheer me, bringing me stalks of the fresh asparagus he knows I love and even attempting conversation at dinner. Yesterday he gave me a copy of a new novel by Louisa May Alcott, who lives right here in Concord. It is called Little Women, and we chuckled over how Papa would disapprove. It did feel nice to smile, and I am touched by Caleb’s kindness, yet none of it makes much of a difference.
At luncheon today, Caleb told me he had something to show me that would please me. Although I appreciate his attempt to lighten my load, I find it difficult to even feign curiosity for I cannot imagine there is anything left on this earth that could bring joy to my frozen heart.
I tell Caleb I must rest before his mystery is unveiled.
June 7, 1868 (evening)
Oh, my dear diary, my hand trembles so as I write to you of my most wonderful news. I do not know where to begin, just as I did not know where to begin when I had my sad story to tell. So I shall start at the beginning, just as I did then, but, oh, my dearest, dearest diary, the end of this story is so gloriously different from the end of the tale I told you before.
Remember I spoke of Caleb’s mystery, the mystery I did not believe could bring me joy? Well, Caleb knew of what he spoke, and he revealed to me the most wonderful secret there could be. You must bear with me, for in my delirium
, I get ahead of myself.
After my nap, I came into the west parlor, where Caleb sat behind Papa’s desk. I hate to be within the walls of that room, even the smallest whiff of its dusty scent brings forth memories I only wish to suppress, so I refused my brother’s offer to sit in the leather wing chair and quickly agreed to accompany him on a trip to the old carriage house, never guessing what awaited me.
The carriage house is out beyond the barn, and although I do remember farm hands sleeping there during harvest time and seasonal machinery being stored there, I do not remember it ever being used for carriages. Still, it was always called the carriage house. Please bear with me again, dear diary, for now my folly is not that I get ahead of myself, but that I digress. Please forgive this silly, silly, happy woman.
I don’t think I have ever seen Caleb so skittish; one moment he was grave and somber and the next he was all aflutter. A quiet, sickly boy, coddled by our mother and belittled by our father, Caleb has grown into a quiet, solemn man. But as we walked across the lawn and around the barn, he practically danced with impatience, and his face was flushed with excitement. Then he abruptly sobered and said, “I want you to prepare yourself, dear sister. What I have to show you may be very upsetting.”
Despite the dullness of my emotions, I was pleased to see Caleb so cheerful. “Upsetting?” I asked, a touch of chiding in my voice. “You appear rather light-hearted to be showing your sister something that might upset her.”
He stopped walking and grabbed my shoulders. His grip was tight on the sleeves of my dress, his fingers pressing into the flesh of my arms. “Sarah, I have done something that would horrify many,” he told me. “I have defied our father, schemed and told many untruths, even to you, but I do not believe I have done wrong.” He raised his chin and his eyes blazed deep into mine; it was as if the brother I had always known was no more, as if Caleb had become someone else entirely, someone driven and passionate, almost frenzied. “I dare say you shall ultimately agree with me,” he continued, “but my actions may well result in as much calamity as joy for us all.”
His intensity scared me. “Calamity?” I repeated. “Brother, what have you done?”
Caleb’s countenance shifted again, and he smiled awkwardly. “Perhaps it is best if we discover the joy before we worry about the calamity,” he said, then led me through the open door of the carriage house.
A flight of rickety stairs hugged the left side of the large room, leading to a loft that had been made into a warren of tiny bedchambers for the hired help. Caleb motioned me to follow him. We climbed the stairs in silence, the pounding of the blood in my ears the only sound of which I was aware. For comfort, I had placed Silas’ charm bag into the pocket of my skirt, and as I climbed, I pressed it between my fingers, for an alarming mixture of fear and jubilation was filling my chest. Although I did not know what I would find at the top of the stairs, a part of me suspected, and I was terrified by the hope that rose within me. I wanted so much for the impossible to be possible.
When we reached the landing, Caleb turned to me. “There is someone I want you to meet.” His eyes were both bright with anticipation and hooded with apprehension. “But he is unaccustomed to strangers. Actually, he isn’t accustomed to anyone but Minna and me, and he is quite young, younger and smaller than one might expect for his—”
“He?” I interrupted, my heart pounding so loudly I could barely hear myself speak. I grabbed Caleb’s arms, as much to grab his attention as to steady myself so I would remain erect. “Who is he?” I couldn’t bear to think what I was thinking. I couldn’t bear to think it and have it not be true.
Caleb did not answer me. He knocked lightly at the door to his left and pushed it open. The room was larger than I expected, brighter, and filled with familiar furniture and toys. The old brass bed from our nursery stood under a row of narrow windows, and a small boy sat upon it; he was holding a book on his lap and appeared to be reading, although he seemed far too young to read The Last of the Mohicans. When he saw Caleb, he jumped up with a broad smile, but when he saw me, he paled and scrambled under the bed, trying to hide himself.
“There’s nothing to fear, Ulysses,” Caleb said softly, crouching down by the bed. “This lady is my sister. She’s come a long way to meet you.”
The little boy peered out from under the blanket, and there was something in his large brown eyes that tore a hole through the center of my being.
“Ulysses?” I whispered to my brother, my eyes never leaving the boy’s face.
Caleb gently pulled Ulysses upright and placed his hands protectively on the boy’s shoulders. “It is your own Levi.”
June 16, 1868
It has been over a week since I last wrote, a week full of wonder and great happiness the like of which I have not known since those few precious winter days with Silas nearly nine years ago. That which I have longed for, dreamed for and prayed for, but never truly believed would transpire, has come to pass. My Levi has come back to me. My own boy. My heart.
My dear brother was unable to give up the tiny babe to the bleakness of the Negro foundling home. Instead of leaving his nephew in that sad warren of little rooms as Papa had ordered, Caleb kept him, finding a Negro woman to care for him and hiding him in the carriage house for eight long years. In all that time, no one but Caleb and Minna knew of Levi, now Ulysses, for fear of our father’s fury. But Minna and Caleb cared for him well, doing as best they could with so little, and although Levi—Ulysses—is small for his age and in great need of both food and learning, he is a wonderful child, slightly bewildered, but full of warmth and intelligence. He reminds me of his father.
Caleb says that he wanted to write me of Levi while I was in Ohio, that he could only imagine the depth of my pain, but he is a cautious man and decided it would be best for Levi—for Ulysses—if I did not know. He feared that upon my return the child’s presence would be revealed, and he did not trust what Papa might do under those circumstances. So Caleb remained silent, maintained his secret and watched over the growth of his nephew. And as much pain as these eight years have caused me, I do not fault my dear brother. Nay, I dare say he has done the right thing.
Caleb has apologized many times over for waiting so long after my return to tell me of Ulysses. At first, I could not fathom how he could do such a thing, but gradually, over the past week, I have come to know and understand my brother’s mind. Caleb, still, remains our father’s son, and although he was unable to give his nephew up to a foundling home, he was also unable to imagine the son of a Negro slave being reared as a Harden, which is what he knew I would do. Caleb feared Papa’s wrath, even from the grave, and it took a full month for him to gather his courage. He says it was my deep unhappiness that finally gave him the strength to stand up against the dead man. I understand and forgive anything my brother has done, for he has saved the life of my son, and perhaps, saved my own too.
As Caleb had feared, and has now come to accept, Levi—Ulysses—is to be a Harden. Caleb had changed Levi’s name when he was but weeks old, in the hope that the child would be safer without the appellation that brought such wrath to Papa’s heart. I have decided that his name shall remain Ulysses to avoid confusion, though he will always be Levi in my heart.
My boy is now to be known as Ulysses Person Harden, the six-year-old scion of my tragically brief marriage in Ohio to George Washington Harden, a very distant cousin, who died of diphtheria within a year of our wedding day. Or so goes the story. Ulysses is the height of a six-year-old and very fair. With time, no one in Lexington shall remember that neither my marriage nor my child were spoken of before my return. It is a sign of the Lord’s great benevolence that I had made no social calls since my return.
It is true that for the past week I have thought little of my husband, as I have been lost in the glory that is my son: talking with him, touching him, watching him, seeing what a fine boy he has grown into. Ulysses, although still quite shy, seems to be growing more comfortable with me, his own mama.
He has not yet asked about his papa.
It gratifies me to know that it is Silas’ child who shall carry on the Harden name. May Ulysses grow strong and have many children. May Silas finally be allowed to rest in peace.
June 20, 1868
Just as I had begun to hope Silas might find solace in having the last laugh on Papa, I learned this cannot be the case. I heard digging again last night, and it was the same digging I had heard before. Although I am loath to admit it, even to you, dear diary, I know these sounds are not my imagination at work; they are Silas, returned from the grave.
June 30, 1868
I am certain that Silas is still here, although I am not at all certain he is alive as we understand it. I think that perhaps my husband is frozen in time, lost and confused, and that he knows not what he does. I fear he is caught by the terrible injury that was done to him, and that he shall not rest until that wrong has been avenged.
I cannot believe that a merciful God would allow such a good man to spend all of eternity in this state, and I keep this thought with me when I feel myself sliding into despair.
July 2, 1868
In the cellar today, I stood before Mama’s canning cupboard, clutching Silas’ charm bag and trying to cheer him. I told him of all his son does: the lessons Ulysses learns, the books he reads, how fine he grows. But this does not seem to please my husband, it does not gladden his heart, and I fear his anger and frustration are far too easy to understand, far too easy to share. How could I ever have been so foolish as to think otherwise?
Silas believes his blood has, once again, been lost to my father, that as it has always been and will continue always to be, the white man has won. And I wonder who am I, the mother of his white child, to tell him differently?
As I cannot contradict the truth of these facts, I instead vow to raise Ulysses to be a compassionate white man, to respect and honor those whose skin is of any color. But Silas is indifferent to my promises, and sometimes I wonder if he understands that I am the young woman he married, that Ulysses is his son, that he is no longer among the living.
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