Sophia squealed. “Thaddeus Black? Are you still seeing him? It’s been ever so long since you’ve answered my letters! Oh, sit down,” she said, pulling Emily back into the seat.
Emily clenched her jaw. “Sophia, I don’t have time to answer letters. I’m—”
Her friend held out a hand to cut her off. “I don’t care. Just say you’ll come visit me this summer and all will be forgiven. Come now, promise me you will,” she said when Emily hesitated.
Emily sighed in resignation. “All right.”
Sophia beamed. “Oh, we’ll have so much fun! We’ll burn these horrid rags you’re wearing and find more suitable clothing. You’ll have officers lining up to dance with you. Not everyone in the countryside has heard of your faux pas.”
“Not yet.”
Sophia waved off her comment. “When I’m finished, I guarantee there won’t be a man alive who will remember a single ill-spoken comment about you. You’ll be the belle of Dorchester County! I would also say Charleston, but I’m not so keen on returning to the city while it’s in such a state.” She swept her fingers at the window in disgust. “It seems like somebody would take charge and clean it up. Why, there are enough Negroes in this town to throw the rubble into the harbor in a few weeks’ time. How hard can it be to get it accomplished?”
“Sophia, there’s no money to rebuild.”
“Oh, pish posh. I know what kind of wealth is in this town. If I lived here, I’m certain I could see it done. I—”
“How’s Matthew?” Emily broke in, more eager to redirect her than curious.
“Oh, you know my husband. Busy as ever.” Sophia fluttered a hand in the air. “He’s meeting me at Mrs. Guthrie’s gala in fifteen minutes. It would do your reputation good to join me. Your house isn’t far away. I could have you transformed in no time.”
“I can’t. I promised Mrs. Bentley I would finish my shift.”
Sophia rolled her eyes. “Really, Emily, I should think it wouldn’t matter if a few bureaus go undusted.”
“And I should think you’d expect me to keep my word.” Emily took a deep breath and squeezed her friend’s hand. “Be happy for me, Sophia. I’m happy.”
Sophia regarded her with a mixture of disbelief and perplexity. “Emily Preston, I don’t understand you at all.”
That brought a grudging smile. “You don’t have to. Just drop me off at this corner.”
8
Emily folded her letter and slipped it into an envelope. The latest correspondence from Aunt Shannon made no mention of the runaways, and a month had passed since Uncle Timothy’s vague letter. Had Ketch and Lizzie recuperated? Had they left Philadelphia? How would they travel? How long would it take to reach Detroit? What if they’d been captured? She tapped the edge of the letter on the desk in frustration. If Lizzie had reached safety, why hadn’t she written? She set aside her reply to Aunt Shannon and picked up a fresh sheet of paper. She had nearly as many questions for Uncle Timothy.
A door slammed somewhere in the house, and Emily smiled to herself. Only the Petersons remained in residence, but Nina and Joey still made their presence known. They’d be tucked into bed soon and the evening would grow still. She dipped her pen in the inkwell and poised it over her paper only to jerk in alarm as a deep bellow echoed through the corridors. Her face paled. That sounded like…
Blotting flecks of ink from her hand, she rushed to the front balcony and peered over the railing. Her father’s carriage stood parked in the shadows below. For five horrified seconds, she stood frozen in place, shocked into inactivity. Then her mind began to race. If her father didn’t find her, he couldn’t prove she’d ever been here.
She gauged the distance to the ground. Too far to leap. Slipping back inside, she considered sneaking down the stairs and stealing out the back door, but it was already too late. Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairway treads.
Emily’s hands shook as she pressed her fingers against her temples. Perhaps she had time to flee up the servants’ stairway to the third floor. She could hide in a trunk in the attic and slink away in the middle of the night. She could do it! She had time.
Then she caught sight of the letters lying on her desk and the shoes she’d kicked to the middle of the floor. She deflated. It was no use. William would know with one glance that she’d been living in his house. It was better to just meet the storm with her bow to the wind.
Closing her eyes, she rubbed both hands down the front of her skirt. Then she stepped outside her bedroom door to await her father.
He clomped into the hallway and stopped at the sight of her, eyes narrowed and nostrils flaring. Emily was reminded of how the bull in Ella Wood’s pasture would lower its horns and paw the ground when it grew agitated.
Her mother hastened up the stairs behind her husband and clutched his arm. “William, hold your temper.”
He flicked her off like a spider. His eyes never left Emily’s face. “Who gave you permission to stay here?” His voice was unnaturally calm.
Emily lifted her chin. “As your daughter, I did not believe I needed permission to sleep in the home I grew up in.”
“Is your memory so short or have you willfully forgotten what I said last December?”
“I haven’t forgotten. I left Ella Wood promptly and have stayed out of your presence. It is you who came to me.”
“Yes, I came.” His breath blew out in short blasts. “Because of this.” He whipped out a magazine and waved it beneath her nose.
“Harper’s Weekly?” Since the beginning of hostilities, the magazine had taken a Northern slant, prompting a general boycott of the publication in the South. She had no idea where he’d found a copy or what it had to do with her.
He rustled through the pages and held it open to an illustration, watching her reaction carefully.
Emily’s eyes widened. There on the page was a wood engraving of Lizzie, eyes closed, body battered and bloody. She hadn’t seen the image since she’d mailed the original to her course instructor after the assault last year, but it was the same, no question.
“How do you explain this?” he asked, shaking the page.
She could only stare, at an utter loss for words.
“I see you know the work,” he said with grim satisfaction.
“Where did you get this?”
“Do you think nobody monitors Northern propaganda? I happened to be in the right office at the right time. But I never expected my own daughter to be a contributor.”
“I did not—”
“Don’t even try to deny it. The proof is right here.” He pushed a finger at the caption. “‘Somebody’s Daughter, by Thomas Wilson.’ The same name that was on the letter from the Pennsylvania Academy. The face of my slave. I wasn’t born yesterday, Emily. You mailed this image to a Northern publication and I want to know why.”
Her chin jutted forward. “I wish I had thought of it, but I did not. I mailed it to my instructor, who sold it to a Northern collector. I had nothing to do with its placement in this magazine.”
“I don’t believe you.” His eyes were cold and hard. “And I will henceforth treat you as a traitor to the South and a stranger to this family. You will find your own living arrangements. I have instructed Zeke to have you arrested for trespassing if you set foot on my property again.”
“William!” Marie gasped.
“I’ll not hear a word from you, woman,” he warned.
“But she is your daughter!”
The glint in his eye as he stared at Emily was close to madness. “Not anymore. Collect your things and get out. And be grateful I don’t have you run out of Charleston for this. Where is Lizzie? I intend to make her pay fully for her part in this.”
Emily almost choked on the bile that rose in her throat. “She’s not here. She ran away in Baltimore—when I enrolled at the Maryland Institute.” Both lies, but she was so angry she didn’t care.
William’s face swelled, purple and mottled. With a bellow of rage, he tossed the magazine
on the floor, spun on his heel, and marched down the stairs.
Emily watched her father depart with perfect composure. The tremor in her hands had steadied, and her thoughts came with absolute clarity. Marie, however, broke into sobs and clung tightly to her daughter.
“I’m all right, Mother. I’m going to be fine.”
But her assurances did nothing to calm the woman. Emily led her into her bedroom and set her on the desk chair. Kneeling, she took her mother’s hand. Marie clutched Emily’s like a lifeline. “We are stronger than this, Mother. You are stronger than this.”
Marie shook her head, her breath coming in ragged gulps. She appeared on the edge of hysteria, and Marie Preston had never, ever resorted to hysterics.
Emily gave her shoulders a shake. “Mother, you must pull yourself together. Do not let him break you like this.”
Marie met her eye. “He—he is in earnest.”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“I—I’ve tried, but he won’t consider—” Her words were interrupted by a series of convulsive breaths.
Emily handed her a handkerchief. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But where—will you go?”
“I have friends. I have a job.”
“Go to Margaret,” she urged. “She’ll—”
“No, Mother. Aunt Margaret made her position quite clear.”
Marie took a long, shuddering breath. “Emily, you must understand. Governor Pickens is a difficult man to work for. Some of his decisions have reflected poorly on your father.”
Emily uttered an incredulous half laugh. “Are you making excuses for him, Mother? This is entirely Father’s doing, not yours. Why do you feel the need to defend him?”
Marie answered haltingly. “He—is my husband. It is not my place—”
“It is your place to follow your own convictions. He may have the legal and physical power to enforce his will, but he can never command your mind.”
Marie wilted, a delicate lily unable to bear up under frost. Cupping her daughter’s face in her hands, she choked out, “Emily, I’m so sorry.”
“So am I, Mother,” Emily whispered, covering the smooth white fingers with her work-roughened palms. “So am I.”
***
Emily clutched the same small valise she had carried to Baltimore. Darkness had fallen, blotting out the ruined landscape and covering Emily’s disgrace. The rock-solid demeanor she maintained under pressure had disintegrated. Alone on the streets, alone with her memory, she barely held her emotions in check. She’d been abandoned. Cast out. Betrayed. The words burned like fire in her belly. Her father had chosen ideology over his own daughter.
She must remain strong. She forced self-pity aside and focused on what must be done. Shelter was her most immediate concern, and Mrs. Bentley had a vacant room. It would cut significantly into her wages, but she could not sleep on the street. She hastened her steps, following the familiar route, and knocked on the woman’s door with square shoulders and firm resolve.
Mrs. Bentley opened the door. “Emily? What are you doing here?”
She raised her valise. “I’d like to rent your last room, if I may.”
Soft lamplight lit the woman from behind. She stepped aside and let Emily enter. “What happened, dear?”
Emily was unprepared for the gentle question. “My father—” Her voice broke. She glanced at the ground, cleared her throat, and tried again. “My father asked me to move out.”
Mrs. Bentley nodded her understanding, already familiar with some of Emily’s story. “Can I make you a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you. All I want at the moment is a bed.”
It was the landlady’s turn to look troubled. “I’m sorry, Emily. I let out that last room two hours ago.”
Shock hit Emily in the chest and drained her arms and legs of strength. She dropped her valise and sank into a chair.
Mrs. Bentley patted her shoulder. “Now, now, dear. I’ll not be turning you out into the cold. Let’s make a bed up for you on the parlor sofa, and in the morning we’ll find a room somewhere in the city until one of mine opens up. Go fetch a blanket and pillow and I’ll fix that cup of tea. It will do you good.”
Tears of gratitude blurred Emily’s vision.
Much later, after a plausible explanation had been made to the other boarders and they had retired to their rooms one by one, Emily lay wrestling with thoughts that would not grant her rest. The front door opened and she sat up. “Thad?”
His shadowy silhouette appeared in the parlor doorway. “Emily? Is that you?”
“Yes.”
Four strides brought him to her side, where he knelt down and felt for her in the dark. “What happened? What are you doing here?”
“My father showed up unannounced. He was going to have me arrested for trespassing.”
“Oh, Emily, I’m so sorry.”
“It was bound to happen eventually. Another confrontation was inevitable.” She managed to keep her tone steady, but when Thad’s hands found her face, her chin began to tremble.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“What can anyone do? He makes his own choices.” A single tear escaped and she wiped at it fiercely. “I’ll be fine, Thad.”
“My poor, brave girl.” He moved her pillow aside and squeezed onto the sofa, his arms drawing her close. His tenderness was her undoing. One sob, then two, shook loose an entire reservoir of tears. She buried her face in her blanket and wept until they cleansed the wound in her heart.
“Better?” he asked, shifting to retrieve a handkerchief from his pocket.
She mopped up the moisture from her face and hiccupped, glad for the thinness of the moonlight. “Why can’t he just accept me the way I am, Thad?”
“Because he doesn’t know how.”
“That’s a poor excuse.”
“It’s the truth. Your father is the product of centuries, and you are shaking the foundation of his world. He doesn’t know what to do with you.”
“But I’m his daughter!”
“Which makes your defiance even harder to swallow. Well-bred girls simply don’t act like you. He loves you, but nothing in his experience has taught him how to respond.”
“You figured it out.”
“My mother—” He hesitated.
It was rare for Thad to talk about his family. “What about your mother?”
“My mother didn’t grow up like you, Emily. She was born into a lower class and raised me with the understanding that women are as capable as men.”
“She did a good job.”
He planted a kiss on her forehead. “I’m glad you approve.”
“Maybe it’s better that this happened now,” Emily mused. “It removes any question that I could have worked things out with him and frees me to concentrate on school.”
“Actually, your father may have good cause for his quick temper. Didn’t you tell me that he has a plantation on Wadmalaw Island?”
She nodded her head before remembering that he couldn’t see it. “Yes, but I’ve never been there.” She’d visited none of his outlying properties. She hadn’t even thought of them for ages. “Why?”
“It’s likely overrun with Yankees. Since establishing themselves at Hilton Head, they’ve been looting the coast.”
Emily grew uneasy at the reminder. The victory in Port Royal Sound late last year had given the Union a stronghold only ninety miles away. How long before an attempt was made to seize Charleston’s deep harbor and railroad network?
“Most of the estates have been abandoned,” Thad continued, “and millions of dollars in sea island cotton and Negroes have fallen into the hands of the Northern army. Your father probably lost a fortune.”
For months, refugees both black and white had flocked to Charleston for safety. Emily couldn’t walk outside without stumbling across their makeshift camps. She never thought to wonder if any of them had poured out their lives in her family’s service.
“How did he find out yo
u were here, anyway?” Thad asked.
“It’s no secret. Weeks ago, Sophia told me that my employment has created quite a scandal. Undoubtedly, word reached him. He simply didn’t bother with me until this crossed his desk.” She reached for her valise and pulled the magazine from the side pocket. Fumbling in the darkness, she opened it to the dog-eared illustration.
“A magazine?”
“Take a look. There’s a candle and matches on the table.”
A soft glow soon illuminated his features. He jolted when he held the newspaper to the light. “It’s Lizzie!” The muscles in his neck tightened as he studied the image. “You submitted this for publication?”
“I sold it to a Northern collector. Somehow it ended up in the magazine.”
“Without your permission?”
She nodded.
“And your father—?”
“—doesn’t believe me.”
He whistled low. “It’s a good thing your name isn’t listed. A lot worse could have happened.”
“I know.”
He handed back the publication. “If this was printed without your permission, you may have grounds for a lawsuit.”
“I’ve thought of that. Then I came up with a better response.”
He lifted his eyebrows.
“I’m going to submit more images.”
His guffaw rent the midnight hush. “Ever the entrepreneur, aren’t you?”
“Don’t laugh. I still have a lot of money to earn, and now I’ll be dipping into my savings to pay room and board before I’d planned to.”
His fingers eased the lines from her forehead. “I didn’t say it’s a bad idea, my little spitfire. It’s actually a good idea.”
“Truly?”
“A wonderful idea. A beautiful idea.” His hands slid down to cradle her face. “A lovely, stunning, exquisite idea…”
She closed her eyes and gave herself to his kiss. She let it roll over her, soothing, healing. “Thank you, Thad,” she murmured.
“For what?”
“For loving even the most stubborn parts of me.”
Blood Moon (Ella Wood, 2) Page 8