by Jodi Daynard
“Take heed, Eliza,” Jeb said, smirking now and pointing a finger at me as he made his way toward the stairs.
Mama and I moved into the library and sat there for some time, chatting happily away about the upcoming party. We gossiped about all those who would attend, and I asked her whether she thought Louisa Ruggles might someday make a good match for Jeb.
“Possibly,” said Mama, looking through her flower book, as we had still not decided on the arrangements for the table. “I for one would not be averse. The Ruggles are a fine family, though I have heard rumors of an uncle with liberal sympathies.”
“She is madly in love with him, poor thing,” I insisted. “But you heard Jeb. He says she is dull and that I mustn’t seat him next to her.”
“What is wrong with a dull girl, I wonder?” Mama asked. “Any man would be pleased to have a wife with no strong opinions of her own. Well, it’s your party. You may seat people where you like.” Then she paused and finally blurted, “Why not put Cassie between them?” At this absurd idea, we both laughed.
We went to church and returned. Cassie did not join us, but I thought nothing of that. She, Cato, and Toby often attended but one of the two Sunday services. Usually Toby would be waiting for me just behind the kitchen door, and I would hear his shriek of delight when he heard us return. He knew that his lesson would begin shortly.
This time, no shriek greeted me. Noon came, and then one, but there was still no call to dinner. Wondering whether there had been some mishap in the kitchen, I moved in that direction. It was odd that neither Mama nor Papa had said a word about the lateness of the meal.
But why was Toby so silent? I expected him to come careening out the kitchen door once I opened it, which I then did.
Cassie was standing in the middle of the room, her back bent flat as a table. She supported herself with both hands gripped upon the cutting board. She was moaning, inhaling and exhaling in gulping heaves, as if she would be violently ill. I glanced about. Toby was not in the kitchen, and I asked aloud, “But what has happened? Where is Toby?”
Cassie was unable to speak, but our young scullery maid, whose name I could never remember, turned to me and replied, “He’s been taken, miss. To the tavern. Cato and Toby both. There’s to be an auction.”
“An auction?” I did not understand. I left the kitchen at once, to seek out my parents. I found my father in his library, reading the Courier. When he heard my steps, he looked up from his paper and smiled.
“Eliza. Darling. How go your preparations? Are you ready to be admired by near and far? I expect you shall soon have more beaux than you know what to do with. I’m sorry I was so short-tempered about it. I really am most proud of you. Yes, most proud.”
As I said nothing, he returned to his paper. But I just stood there. “What has happened to Cato and Toby?” I finally asked. “Where have you sent them?”
My father sighed. He then pointed to the broadside, as if it were to blame. “I can hardly expect you to know the events of the day. But, in a word, I must retrench. Yes, retrench and consolidate.”
I gazed about my father’s study: hundreds of leather-bound volumes stood within flame-red mahogany cases. A blue damask sofa sat upon a large Turkey carpet.
“What mean you? Toby is my special charge.”
“Yes, I know. But Eliza,” he sighed. “You’ve simply no idea of the pressure I am under. A hurricane has hit Barbados, and my crops have been destroyed. My debts grow. It was either the carriage or—”
“The carriage?” I cried in disbelief, hearing only that much. I then turned and fled the room, mounted the stairs, and flung myself onto my bed, where I cried hot tears. My face was red and wet when Mama knocked. She said, “Eliza, Louisa is here.”
“Louisa?” I sighed. “Well, all right. A moment.” Usually I was glad of Louisa’s company, but not today. I dried my tears and descended. Upon seeing me at the base of the stairs, my friend curtsied.
“I hope you’ve dined already?” she asked courteously.
“No, in fact. Our cook, Cassie—well—” Here, I grabbed Louisa by the hand and fairly dragged her into the library. “Oh, Louisa. Something terrible has happened.”
Louisa placed a thick, warm hand on mine and sucked in her breath, her look one of complete absorption in my predicament. “Tell me, dear. Tell me everything.”
We sat together upon the sofa facing the fireplace. Taking a deep breath, I told her what had happened. At the end of my narrative, she released my hand, and I awaited Louisa’s considered judgment. At the time, I heard wisdom in her dull, heavy pauses, and in her parroted adult phrases I was sure that I heard the ring of truth.
“It is very sad about the little boy, since he was such a favorite of yours.”
“Yes, yes,” I agreed warmly.
Then she smiled slightly. “But Eliza, you may take comfort in knowing that they don’t really feel the same way about things as we do.”
“What mean you?” I frowned. I recalled Cassie, doubled over in pain, her arm braced upon the kitchen table. And I recalled Toby’s delight in learning to read—at three, whereas Jeb was five before he could do so. I said, “I saw Cassie. I believe her pain was very extreme.”
Louisa smiled knowingly. “Oh, they make a great show of it, I’ll grant you. But she’ll get over it soon enough, I expect. The key, Mama says, is to keep them busy.”
For once, I was not convinced of Louisa’s wisdom, but I fell silent on the topic of Cassie. Louisa went on to ask me what she had come to ask, namely, whether she could bring a cousin of hers to my party. This cousin, apparently, would be staying with them through the holidays. I said of course she could, and she left soon after, all smiles.
Once Louisa had gone, I sat thoughtfully in the library for a few moments. I could not remove the image of Cassie from my mind, and this image was soon fortified with the low, real, keening sound of her grief coming from across the hall.
I stood up from the sofa and moved out of the library, determined to seek Jeb’s help. For while he was not as close to Cassie or Toby as I was, lately his heart seemed so certain about things, especially upon the topics of right and wrong.
A few moments later, I entered my brother’s chamber without knocking. He was sitting on the floor amidst a flotsam of wood and scraps of cloth, his long legs splayed. He was constructing a kite.
Jeb looked up as I entered. “Oh, hallo, Eliza. I’m just—”
“I wish to tell you something that greatly puzzles me,” I interrupted him. “I can’t rest until I do.”
“Tell me, Sister.” He stood up from the floor. I then told Jeb everything Papa had said, and where Cato and Toby had gone. Hearing me, Jeb’s jaw clenched, and he bent to lace his boots.
“Go you somewhere?” I asked.
Jeb looked at me, puzzled. “We’ll both go.”
“But where to?”
He took my hand. “Come,” he said. “I dare not waste a moment explaining.”
Jeb leapt down the stairs two at a time and then opened the front door. A nipping autumn air rushed in, and I hesitated, wondering whether I should don my cape. We heard footsteps, and Jeb grasped my hand tightly. Mama appeared in the foyer, followed by shadowy Maria, who was holding her place in a book she had been reading.
“Where go you at this hour? Dinner is nearly ready. At last,” Mama sighed.
“Do not wait for us,” Jeb said.
We stepped outside. Through the closed door, I could hear Mama turn to Maria: “What can they mean, going abroad like this just now, and with no explanation? Papa!”
“Yes, what mean you, Jeb,” I echoed, “dragging me out without my cape? It’s cold!” I flapped my arms as Jeb fairly dragged me down the road toward town.
“Papa has sent your ‘special pet’ to auction. Do you wish to retrieve him or not?”
I made no reply, but merely grasped Jeb’s hand as we walked the rest of the way to the tavern. It was a fine autumn afternoon, though a little chilly. The white
houses along Brattle Street shone with the bright declining sun. It had been a warm summer, and the maple leaves had just begun to yellow; a few had turned a brilliant orange, and even fewer had fallen. In town, I saw no signs of the duress about which my father had spoken. In the center of town, where the market stood, we came upon people going about their chores: servants stood in lines at the stalls. Ladies peered into shop windows. Coachmen smoked their pipes by the flanks of their tethered horses. We heard the clang of the church bell, marking two.
But the commotion of the market, the sun’s glare off the houses, and my inner turmoil all conspired to make my head spin. “A moment, Jeb. Please.” I stopped walking and closed my eyes. When I opened them, I noticed that things had changed: ladies, many of whom I recognized, strolled as usual with their families; their servants waited in line to purchase fish for supper—yet I could hardly tell the two apart, for they all now wore homespun to show their support for the Cause. How very ugly it was!
We soon passed the bright-yellow courthouse and made our way up the road to Stedman’s Tavern, near the Common. Within, it was dark with smoke and dense with men. Jeb inquired of some old fellow standing next to him, whose hands were taken up with a pipe and mug of cider, and was told by a nod of the head that the auction was upstairs. We mounted the tavern’s narrow, steep stairs, Jeb going first. Coming up the final steps, we emerged into a great room, also quite smoky, in which chairs had been set in rows. Here sat farmers, shopkeepers, and the lawyers of merchants who could not be importuned to attend the auction. No doubt Papa’s lawyer was here, though I knew not which of them he was. These men spoke among themselves; some wrote in ledgers. Their suits appeared dusty, their thick-soled shoes worn and scuffed.
Before them, a line of Negro men and women stood. The men were in chains that held their arms behind their backs. They stood erect, some staring off toward an imagined horizon. The women wept, their tears making shiny rivulets down their black faces. One woman cried so loudly that the auctioneer gave her a violent poke, and she stopped crying at once. I was astonished that the poor creature’s fear of this man was even greater than her grief.
My horror at this scene cannot be described. I knew we had slaves, but I had never considered where they came from, or where they went when they left us. They simply were—much like our chairs, or the food on our table.
But there was little time to dwell on these new feelings. My eyes sought out Cato and Toby. I saw them not at first, for they were not in the line. They were safe! Or so I thought for a moment. My eyes wandered to the right, where I noticed a placard nailed to the wall: “Slave Auction TODAY.” The word had been painted on its own slat and nailed over the board, hung by a nail. In this way, I supposed, one might easily exchange the slat for others that read “TOMORROW” or “NEXT WEEK.” It was then I espied Toby. He was nearly hidden behind the row of slaves standing next to the sign, in the arms of a young Negro girl. I approached her. Jeb placed his hand on my shoulder, as if to hold me back. I shook him off, and he went to have a word with the auctioneer.
“Give me the child,” I said to the girl. “He’s ours. He’s here by mistake.”
Recognizing me, Toby ceased his crying. He reached out as if he would play once more with my cross. “’Liza!” He grinned.
I nudged the girl’s arms loose and placed mine across the child’s thin, naked shoulders. A cloud suddenly passed over the sun, casting the room in almost total darkness. I felt the press of Toby’s warm hands upon my throat as Jeb pulled me back.
“It’s no use,” he whispered. “They’ve already been sold.”
3
I HAD BEEN A GREGARIOUS AND SOCIAL child, but after this event, I fell silent. I lost the desire to speak to anyone—not to my parents, nor Jeb, nor even to Cassie, whom I bade leave my meals outside my chamber door. What might I say to comfort her? Such words had not yet been invented. My heart grieved in a way I did not know how to fix. My gold cross burned me and kept me from sleeping until, one night, I removed it. I kept recalling how, in the tavern, Toby’s little hand had reached for it. I could still feel his fingers in the hollow of my neck.
I knew not what had brought about this calamity. But things were far worse when I finally left my chamber to eat breakfast with my family—for there, all was as if nothing had happened. Cassie, now upright once more, placed the eggs, the ham, the biscuits, the salted fish, and the applesauce on the buffet, and everyone heaped their plates. Jeb ate wolfishly. Maria wrote surreptitiously in a little notebook on her lap. Her dark curls tumbled over her forehead, and her ink-stained fingers moved quickly, as if she feared interruption.
“What do you do, child?” asked Mama.
“A moment, Mama. I have just one more thought.”
“Thought? What thought should a girl be having at table?”
Wisely, Maria made no reply.
“Hello, Eliza,” said Papa, noticing my entry into the dining room, though his eyes remained downcast.
Mama said, “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. And very timely, too, for I was wondering what you thought of a sugar swan as a centerpiece for the dessert course. And—oh, did I tell you? The Inmans are coming. Apparently George Inman said, ‘I wouldn’t miss the Boylston’s party for the world.’ Isn’t that an auspicious sign, Eliza?”
I endeavored to smile—for Mama was thinking of me, was she not? But, lips quivering, I managed to say only, “Mama, I fear I haven’t the heart for a party.”
“Haven’t the heart?” She laughed nervously, her eyes flitting toward my father. “Why would you say such a thing? Of course there will be a party. The invitations have been sent and answered. Besides, what would I tell people?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell them someone has died,” muttered Jeb, “for it would be true enough.”
Papa rose from his seat as if he might accost my brother, then sank back down into a feigned distraction. At the thought of what Jeb might have meant, I blinked back tears and could not eat a morsel.
Later, as Maria and I sat in the library, we discussed the matter of the party. Jeb had gone upstairs with his tutor. He had failed his entrance exams to Harvard that July, much to Papa’s dismay, and was endeavoring to improve his Latin. We doubted he made much progress. Jeb was highly intelligent, though not studious, and I always thought that the expense of a tutor was wasted on him. The family’s true scholar of the family sat right next to me. She had begun to read the Odyssey, one of many leather-bound tomes to be found in the library.
Now Maria closed her book and looked at me with her deep, dark eyes.
“Surely you will attend your own party. Mama has gone to such effort.”
“I don’t know what to do. I don’t see how I can smile my way through such an evening. I feel it very keenly, Maria. I know Papa must have had a very good reason to do what he did. He must be in very great trouble of some sort, though I cannot understand it. Can you?”
“Our parents are used to doing what they please with their property. I doubt Papa felt he needed a very good reason.”
“Papa said it was either the slaves or his carriage.”
Maria smirked. “You see. Not a very good reason.” She continued, “It’s a terrible thing Papa did. But whom shall you be punishing by refusing to go to your own party? Our guests are innocent of the crime, and Cassie will not get her family back.”
“No.” I considered. “But perhaps Mama and Papa will take the opportunity to reflect upon their actions. Yes.” I nodded. “Reflect and . . . and feel for poor Cassie.”
Maria sighed. “Think you Mama will ever consider how Cassie, or Cato, or how any of them feel? She’d as soon consider the feelings of her shoes.”
We had recently heard the news of the British ships in the harbor and their hostile vigilance of us. We had heard, too, of the throat distemper and the canker rash that had made their way up the coastal routes that fall. These plagues had begun to carry off our Boston neighbors and instilled dread in
our hearts: in the former, the sufferer grew a dense, black fur in his throat and eventually suffocated. The latter was more insidious: the victim would seem to recover, only to collapse in sudden death, days—or even months—later.
But our parents seemed little concerned. Papa continued to sit in his study and pore over his papers, no doubt finding more ways to “retrench and consolidate.” My mother busied herself planning for my party, and, as there was little else for me to do, I joined her, though perhaps not with the same alacrity I once had felt.
It grew quite cold, and we finally prevailed upon Papa to light the fires: wealthy though he might have been, he was quite frugal in certain matters. Sometimes we went near into December before he let a servant use the wood that had been drying in the bins since the previous year.
At these times, we refused to bathe. Though a bath in the kitchen was warm enough, our hair would turn to icicles by the time we returned to our chambers. Between ablutions, we kept a discreet distance from one another.
Our first snowfall came on Sunday, November 19, three weeks before my sixteenth birthday. It arrived with such sudden fury that we did not go to church, neither morning nor afternoon service. By three o’clock, the snow was two feet high, and soon the gathering wind blew the snow into drifts of five feet and more. When the storm had begun to taper off, Maria, Jeb, and I stuck our noses out the front door in wonderment at the whiteness. We exhaled in unison, to watch the smoke from our mouths gather and disperse. The shrubs and walkways were white, and the pointy tips of gates and fences stuck up like giant, jagged teeth along the road. There was not a soul abroad. We saw only the brown and black backs of our neighbors’ dogs bounding up through the snow and heard the anxious cries of owners and servants, calling them back.
Speaking of cold, Mama had come down with one that week and kept to her bed. Jeb eluded his tutor as often as he dared, going abroad—we knew not where. But Maria and I were content to watch nature from our windows. The library windows, though wavy, were newly cleaned both inside and out. From these we saw Mama’s formal gardens, not yet pruned back for the winter, frozen in their last colorful bloom: pink, salmon, yellow, and crimson, all made more vivid by the partial layer of snow. Beyond our garden, I could just make out the chimneys of the Vassal house.