She crumpled on her bed and buried her tears in her pillow. She’d never know. She didn’t trust Thad’s motives or her own heart enough to pursue those answers.
***
Emily could never be certain how she survived the next eight weeks. Her first term merged into the next. Every day was a repeat of the one before, a singular struggle to reach the end of the evening. Not even music soothed her. She had anticipated school for so long and worked so hard to get there only to have life snatch away her triumph. Instead of fulfillment, a great cavern yawned inside her, gorging on her joy. She was afraid to examine it too closely lest she fall in and be swallowed completely.
Emily had never considered that she would be the only Southerner attending school in Maryland. Of course, good Southerners kept their daughters at home. Baltimore had freed her, but she’d been received with scorn. In her heartache, Emily longed to be surrounded by her own people, but the Institute granted only Thursday off for Christmas Day. She couldn’t abide the thought of spending the holiday in the boardinghouse alongside her grief. So she answered Uncle Timothy’s letter and accepted his invitation. In an act of reckless desperation, she took a full week off school, not caring that she used every unexcused absence allowed for the term.
Mercifully, trains headed away from the battlefields were subject to far less interference, and Emily had no trouble booking passage. A short three-hour ride deposited her at the Philadelphia station Friday afternoon. As she exited the train, she pulled her cloak more firmly around herself and readjusted her muffler; the unheated railway car had left her chilled through. Though she had written her uncle a description of herself, no one greeted her on the platform, so she entered the station and settled on a bench to wait, dully noting her unfamiliar surroundings and listening to the flat, hard accent of the North.
Sharp longing for Ella Wood seized her. Families were meant to be together over the Christmas season, and this would be her second one away. She wondered how her mother was coping with the death of her fifth child. Emily had only written to her once since returning from the Winchester hospital. She knew she should be home comforting her and drawing her own solace from Chantilly and Lune and the plantation’s peaceful acres.
“Emily Preston?”
She turned to find a short, round-bellied man with twinkling eyes and a long white beard. He looked like an off-duty St. Nicholas in woolen trousers and a twill overcoat. She rose to her feet. “Uncle Timothy?”
The man’s smile stretched as wide as his stomach. When she offered her mittened hand, he wrapped her in a tremendous embrace. “Oh!” she exclaimed, stumbling slightly.
“What a pleasure it is, my dear!” He beamed as he released her. “That rascal Isaac writes about you all the time. Likes to remind me that he’s your favorite uncle. Now at last I have a chance to pull even with him.”
Emily readjusted her bonnet. “It was kind of you to invite me, sir.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he remonstrated. “I won’t stand for any of that ‘sir’ malarkey. It’s ‘uncle’ or nothing. Come along. The buggy is just over here.”
After her trunk had been loaded, he turned the horse into traffic, but the curiosity that once characterized her personality had gone dormant. She cared little for the shops, architecture, or vehicles they clattered past. But Philadelphia was new territory, untarnished by the memories and sorrows of Baltimore. Maybe she would stay. She certainly didn’t want to go back.
Uncle Timothy seemed to sense her mood. He whistled to himself and made no demands on her as he maneuvered through traffic and guided the horse out of town. The space of an hour transformed the busy streets into country lanes. Twenty minutes further, Uncle Timothy turned them toward a modest brick house waiting at the end of a tree-lined drive.
“It used to be a tobacco plantation, back in the colonial era,” he told her. “I purchased it twenty years ago, when my doctor advised me to take an extended leave of absence from Carolina’s steamy summers.”
“It’s very quaint.” Two stories, with three windows casting cheery light across the darkening porch, the house drew her immediately.
“Get inside and warm yourself while I put the horse away. Jane will have hot chocolate waiting for you, or I’ll eat my hat.” He stopped in front of the steps, dismounted, and hoisted her trunk onto the porch. Emily climbed the steps ahead of him but hesitated outside the front door. “Go on,” he encouraged.
Just then the door opened, and a plump, elderly Negro woman beamed at her. “Miss Preston,” she greeted in a deep, sonorous voice. “It’s so good to have you here.”
Emily was reminded at once of Deena, and another wave of homesickness washed over her.
“I’m Jane. Let me take your wraps. Clyde!” she called as Emily shrugged out of her cloak and pulled off her muffler and mittens. “Clyde, come in here and bring Miss Preston’s trunk up to her room.”
A tall, spare black man ambled into the entryway and dipped his head at Emily before strolling out to the porch.
“Come, sit down,” Jane said, ushering her into the parlor where a roaring fire beckoned her to toast her hands before its flames. “I’ll be right back with something hot to drink.”
Emily sank gratefully into one of two chairs pulled up close to the hearth. As she basked in the warmth, she scanned the room’s décor. It was masculine in appearance, with plain wooden floors, dark furnishings, a few pictures in massive frames, and not a single frill to soften it.
She heard Clyde enter with her trunk. Moments later another door opened and closed, and Uncle Timothy’s voice boomed somewhere in the back of the house. Then Jane returned bearing a tray with two mugs and a plate of sandwiches. She sank into the chair opposite Emily and set the tray on a table between them, handing Emily one of the cups and taking the other for herself.
Emily sipped at it carefully. It was chocolate, just as Uncle Timothy had predicted. In minutes, it began to warm her from the inside out.
“Your trip was uneventful?” Jane asked.
She nodded.
“It’s a fabulous way to travel, these trains. I remember when I was a child, there was no such thing as a steam engine. At least, I’d never heard of them. We got everywhere by foot or by horse.”
Emily found she didn’t have to say much. Jane did most of the talking, mainly idle chatter drawn from decades of life experience, but also a good deal about the years she and Clyde—with whom she had just celebrated forty-six years of marriage—had worked for Uncle Timothy. During her ramblings, Emily managed to eat two sandwiches and drink the entire cup of hot chocolate. And as she warmed, she began to grow pleasantly drowsy.
She didn’t remember nodding off to sleep. She simply awoke to find that full darkness had fallen outside the window, the fire had died down, and an afghan had been spread across her body and tucked under her chin.
Uncle Timothy peeked into the room. “I thought I heard you stirring. Jane said she talked you right into a coma.” He chuckled. “Did you have a good nap?”
Emily felt embarrassment slide up her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“Nonsense, you were tired. Let me show you to your quarters. If you have difficulty falling back to sleep, there’s an oil lamp in your room and a splendid selection of books on the shelf just there,” he said, pointing.
Sleep wasn’t a problem. For the first three days of her visit, Emily felt she did little else. No one required anything of her, so she stayed in bed late and retired early. It left far less time to fill with thinking and feeling. But eventually her body caught up on rest. In her wakeful hours, she took to wandering the farm in solitude until the Pennsylvania winter drove her back inside. Then she’d cozy up with a book, her stocking feet tucked beneath her on the parlor chair before a blazing fire. She was pleased when, on the fourth morning of her visit Jane met her there with another cup of hot chocolate.
“Well now, Miss Emily, you’re looking far more at ease than you did on your arrival.” She seated herself in
the second chair once again. “It is amazing what a little rest and relaxation can do for troubles, isn’t it?”
“They don’t go away completely,” Emily replied, taking a sip of the hot, creamy beverage.
“’Course they don’t. But you’re able to face them more objectively. They tend to get even smaller when you share them with somebody else.” She tipped her head significantly. “I knew your brother Jack, you know.”
“You did?” Emily asked in surprise. “How?”
“Oh, he and Timothy have been in touch over the years. We always knew what he and Zeke were up to. He was a likeable child, your brother. Always had his priorities straight.”
“You know Zeke, too?”
“Sure I know Zeke. He and your uncle go way back. They were children together.”
“But how could they have been?” Emily sat up straighter, her interest piqued. “Zeke was born on the Milford plantation. Uncle Timothy isn’t a Milford.”
“No, he’s a Blaine. And the Blaines lived just down the road from the Milfords.”
Emily hadn’t known that.
“Timothy and your grandfather, Henry Milford, were childhood friends. That’s how your grandmother—Timothy’s sister—wound up married to your grandfather.”
“And my mother and Uncle Isaac were their children.” It seemed odd to hear the pieces of her family history explained to her by an utter stranger.
“And I’m sure you already know how Timothy took in Isaac for two years when he proved too much for your grandparents to handle, and how Isaac wound up joining him in his more clandestine operations.”
Operations that Zeke was also heavily involved in. So there it was, all laid out for her, the legacy she and Jack had inherited.
“Were you a part of their slave-smuggling work, too?” Emily asked.
“Not directly. I didn’t meet Timothy until after his wife died. He hired me to keep house for him. That was about the time Timothy gave up preaching and settled down to farming. When he found out Clyde can fix just about anything, he hired him, too, and eventually we followed him north.”
“Lizzie was the first one to tell me Uncle Timothy was a minister,” Emily said. “When she wrote to tell me of her marriage.” She had never even heard of the Blaines until Uncle Isaac told her about Uncle Timothy. Why had her mother never mentioned them?
The answer seemed obvious. It was the same thing that divided the nation.
They sat in silence, listening to the logs pop and sizzle in the fireplace. “I imagine it’s been hard for you all alone at that school since Jack died,” Jane said.
“I’m not sure I want to go back.”
Jane cocked her head doubtfully. “Your schooling is something you could give up?”
Emily didn’t answer.
“Honey, word travels in this family. We all know the kinds of sacrifices you made to get there. Are you truly ready to throw that away?”
“There’s no pleasure in it anymore, Jane. It’s like everything I loved about art died with Jack.”
“Miss Emily, I think your brother would be sorely disappointed to learn he was the reason you let go of your dream.”
“It’s not just Jack,” Emily admitted, spreading her hands in a futile gesture. “It’s—” She cut off, unwilling to open her heart that wide. But Jane waited, kind and persistent. “It’s everything,” she finished lamely.
Jane seemed to look right through her and into the chair beyond. “What other hurts you got mixed up in there, child?”
Emily kept her face impassive. “I…had hoped to marry this summer.”
“Mm-mm-mm,” Jane hummed. “And your fella, he broke it off, did he?”
Emily looked down at her hands still lying limply on the black fabric of her lap. In truth, she was mourning for two men. “No. I did.”
“Oh, honey.” Jane reached over to lay a hand on her arm. Her compassion weakened the last of Emily’s reserve and the whole story inched out—hurts, hopes, and heartache. Everything but the attack on Lizzie. She hadn’t spoken of Thad’s betrayal with anyone, and it felt odd to spill it to a Negro woman who sat in an armchair and drank hot chocolate with white guests and who knew her family history better than she did. But it also felt good.
“I see now I put far too much trust in him,” Emily finished. “I should have been strong. I should have been happy with the opportunity I had and content to rely on myself.”
“There’s nothing wrong with loving someone, Miss Emily. Love is one of God’s greatest gifts.”
“Seems to me God should have thought that one through a little longer,” Emily said wryly. “Love has an amazing capacity to hurt people.”
“Yes, it does. But the fault doesn’t lie with God. It lies with people. We’re all flawed. Even after forty-six years of marriage, Clyde and I still disappoint each other.”
“Is it worth it?” Emily truly wanted to know.
Jane smiled. “’Course it is. Because after disappointment, there’s forgiveness. Sometimes the relationship on the far side of hurt is even sweeter for having experienced it.”
Emily thought about that for several minutes. “But what if there’s no repentance? There can be no restoration.” Thad had come clean about his deceit, but he’d said nothing of how he treated Lizzie. In the South, it wasn’t even considered wrong.
“Ah,” Jane pointed an index finger at her. “God has that problem, too. He wants to forgive, but we’re not always ready to change our way of thinking to line up with his, are we?”
Emily wouldn’t presume to be God, but she was absolutely certain Thad was wrong on this count. She sighed. “I’ve been moping long enough. It’s time I set this whole thing behind me and move on. Thad is who he is and he’s not going to change.”
“No one is irretrievable, Miss Emily. It may be that your young man will come around. Or perhaps he won’t. Either way, you can’t let disappointment make your decisions for you.”
“But how can I not?” she pleaded. “I feel as though I’m stumbling through this blindly.”
Jane leaned back in her chair. “When something changes for the worse, I like to take stock of the constants I still have in my life—the things I love, the people I can count on, the activities that have always brought me the most joy. For me, those include Clyde, my children, my faith, and my cooking. Even your Uncle Timothy.” Jane narrowed her eyes and delivered her admonition. “Find your constants and draw from them, Miss Emily. Don’t be so quick to decide for or against that school of yours until you’ve been able to weigh it against the balance of things that truly matter.”
Emily watched the flames leap orange in the fireplace. Jane’s advice gave her a place to start besides the dark, yawning emptiness.
Jane patted her hand and heaved herself from the chair. “I’m going to check on dinner. Give yourself some time. You’ll find your way.”
21
Though Emily experienced no warm spirit of comfort and joy, the arrival of Christmas could not be postponed. Wednesday evening, she agreed to accompany her uncle to a Christmas Eve service out of a grudging sense of obligation. They rode through a light snowfall. The night air lay blue and crisp around them, the silence broken only by the merry jingle of the harness and the beat of the horse’s hooves. It was the first she’d been alone with him since he’d driven her home from the station.
Uncle Timothy reminded her a great deal of Uncle Isaac. She was intrigued by his unique relationship with Jane and Clyde, the way he shared his house and treated them more like friends than employees. With the exception of Uncle Isaac, she’d never met anyone so completely at ease among colored folk. Indeed, he seemed to not even notice the difference.
“How long have Jane and Clyde worked for you?” she asked.
Uncle Timothy left off whistling long enough to say, “Forty years, give or take a few.”
“You must pay them well for them to stay with you so long.”
Her uncle’s laughter rolled up from his oversized belly,
shaking it like a washtub full of water. “I can’t even remember the last time money exchanged hands.”
Emily glanced up in surprise. “And they stay with you?”
“They sure do.”
She tried to puzzle out their reasons. Zeke had chosen to stay with her mother after Uncle Isaac set him free. But Jane and Clyde had never been slaves.
“I heard you used to be a preacher,” she prompted.
“I must have been a pretty poor one. I lost congregation after congregation. The last one threatened to run me out altogether, so I retired from the cloth.”
“You couldn’t have been so terrible.” He’d proven his wisdom and his sound knowledge of scripture many times in his letters.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I think it had more to do with my message.”
“You preached against slavery, didn’t you?”
“I argued against it at its very core.”
Emily could imagine how well that must have gone over. She’d heard stories of preachers losing their positions, their homes, and even their lives unless they brought their public stance into line with prevailing thought.
“You see, the upstanding people of South Carolina don’t want to hear what the Good Book truly says. Oh, they like the stories about Moses and David, and the parts about heaven and God being love. But they prefer to take their carving knife to the rest. I finally grew tired of casting my pearls before swine. My wife had died by that time, so I moved home to my parents’ farm.” He breathed in a satisfied draft of air. “There’s something wholesome and gratifying about providing for oneself from the dust of the earth.”
“And eventually you moved to Pennsylvania. Do you still farm?”
“No, no. I’m an old man. Nowadays I let out my land to sharecroppers. It’s not exactly lucrative, but then I have few needs. So I suppose it all works out, doesn’t it?”
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