“Is that why you can’t afford to pay Clyde and Jane anymore?”
He glanced at her curiously. “Emily, I don’t pay Clyde and Jane because they know they’re welcome to anything I have. They’re not just my employees. They’re my kin.”
Emily laughed. The couple didn’t have a single drop of white blood.
He looked at her curiously. “You find that funny?”
“Well, it is rather obvious you’re not related.”
“Aren’t we?” He raised his eyebrows. “Emily, I do believe you’ve forgotten the same truth as my parishioners. Aren’t we all descendants of the same man?”
“Of course, but—”
“No, there can’t be any buts. Cultures and races developed after God confused the languages at Babel. But we’re all sons of Noah, all sons of Adam. True?”
“I suppose.”
“Then we’re all distant kin. We’re all exactly the same.”
“I guess I can’t argue.”
“It’s simple logic. Any talk of black inferiority is just an excuse to justify enslavement.”
Emily let the idea work its way fully into her thoughts. Her eyebrows lifted as she followed it to its natural conclusion, one she had never even considered. “You told your congregation that blacks and whites are…equal?”
Uncle Timothy simply smiled as though she were a child who had successfully recited her ABCs. But that was it, she realized. That was the difference between Uncle Timothy and everyone else she knew. He treated Clyde and Jane like equals.
Emily sat back in her seat and stared at the road without really seeing it. Even Lizzie, whom she loved, she had never considered family. Not really. She was a dear friend, a cherished companion, but an equal?
Could a Negro be kin to a Preston?
Jack had thought so.
Emily followed Uncle Timothy into the church and sat beside him in the third row where she wrestled with her own answer. The preacher prayed, the congregation sang, the children performed their pageant, and the Christmas story in Luke 2 was read by a small boy with a piping voice that carried to the far corners of the sanctuary. It was as though God himself seemed to find the time right to weigh in on her musings.
“‘And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, “Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.”’”
The words repeated in Emily’s head. Good tidings of great joy which shall be to all people. All people. That baby came not just for the Jew, but for the European, Indian, Chinese, and African. He made no distinction.
All people.
The words agreed with everything Malachi Watson had taught her, with the speech Frederick Douglass had delivered in the First Baptist Church of Detroit, with the lessons Uncle Isaac had shared, and the texts of the Grimké pamphlets. Emily realized she’d long been building up to her answer. There simply was no difference between black and white. In every way that mattered, they were equal. They were kin.
The epiphany was the culmination of a challenge issued by a fourteen-year-old black boy on the front porch of her uncle’s hotel so many years ago. She smiled as she recalled the conversation, exchanged beneath the light of the Candle Star.
“Emily, do you agree that God made us both, just like he made black and white angels?” Malachi asked.
“Of course I do,” she sniffed. “I’m no heathen.”
“If you really believe that, you cannot justify any differences between us.”
“Oh, yes I can. You and I are of completely different stations.”
Malachi scoffed. “Stations are man’s own invention, based on pride and power. There’s no natural basis for it whatsoever. We hurt the same. We love the same. Our only difference comes down to color. We’re like two painted houses on the same street.”
It had taken Emily four years to reach the same conclusion. But with such an acknowledgement came responsibility. Responsibility that Jack had recognized long before she did.
He’d charged her with it on his deathbed.
***
The remainder of the holiday passed, and the black net that draped Emily’s mind on her arrival began to catch fewer and fewer of her thoughts. She had spent hours dwelling on Jane’s words. They changed the foundation of her thinking from loss to the steady influences she still had in her life—her mother, Abigail, Dr. and Mrs. Malone, Uncle Isaac, Uncle Timothy, Aunt Margaret, Missouri. She took time to renew each contact that had been broken and let them know she was all right.
Slowly, her outlook lightened. Even when word came of a battle in Fredericksburg, Virginia, she wouldn’t let herself slip back into her dark prison. Instead, the battle reminded her that Jovie, too, had played an important role in her life. She owed him a true apology. Not necessarily for choosing Thad, but for withdrawing her friendship long before she made that choice.
Slipping upstairs to her room, she fished in her trunk for the packet containing Jovie’s letters. She didn’t understand why she continued to carry them with her. Guilt? Regret? The realization that she’d let something precious slip away? She couldn’t say. She was just glad she’d found the courage to move forward. Settling on a cushion in the window seat of her uncle’s house overlooking a pale, blank landscape, she opened the first one and began to read:
Dear Emily,
My thoughts and prayers have been with you often since leaving you on the train. I wish I could have traveled all the way home with you, but I didn’t spare a moment’s worry. The spirit of independence you displayed during our time in Baltimore assures me that you are quite capable both of traveling alone and of moving to a new life in a new city.
But the ruins of our beautiful city still haunt me, and I know you’re living every day in their shadow. Keep your thoughts focused ahead and not on Charleston or Ella Wood. They have both burned. Don’t let circumstances steal your anticipation of what lies ahead.
It is a caution I must issue also to myself. Camp is ever lacking in beauty, but January finds it an especially dull and dreary place. With such adversity pressing against my mind, lately I find myself wondering which of my companions I will lose next. It is a horrible, numbing thought, one I would banish but for the fact that many I held dear now lie in a shallow grave. My great anticipation is the coming spring, when I will be released from duty and allowed to return to those I loved first. And since leaving you, I have reminded myself daily that spring always comes.
Lastly, Emily, I must once again apologize for my behavior. We parted on less than satisfactory terms because of my indiscretion, for which I have remonstrated myself continuously. My great admiration of you has proven my great weakness. I pray you will forgive me and find the grace to set my mistake behind us.
As always,
Jovie
His simple eloquence enveloped her, and she let her thoughts wander backward to the time he described—before the painful days in Winchester, before their difficult parting at Maple Ridge, before the awkward kiss, and back to the week in Baltimore. How hopeful she’d been then. How eager. And Jovie had done everything in his power to make the trip magical. It was high time she thanked him and apologized. She located paper, pen, and ink and began:
Dear Jovie,
It’s been a year since you accompanied me to Baltimore. Unfortunately, I let a silly kiss blind me to your generosity and distract me from the kindness you showed me every moment of that trip. I have been in error. Truly, your encouragement and support are responsible, more than anything else, for landing me where I most desired to be. My thanks is heartfelt and long overdue…
***
“Jane, may I sketch your portrait?” she asked Saturday morning. She would catch the train home after church the f
ollowing day.
The woman didn’t look up from sweeping the entryway. “Oh, fie, Miss Emily. Whyever would you want to draw a picture of an old woman?”
Emily smiled. It was almost exactly the response Deena had given her two years ago. “Because I’m falling out of practice. I haven’t picked up a pencil in months.”
That wasn’t quite true. She’d completed scores of assignments, but only out of obligation. They hadn’t left her with a trace of the pleasure she once felt at putting her talent to paper. Now, as she emerged from the dark world in which she had been living, she felt the old nudge returning. “Please?”
“Oh, all right.” Jane leaned the broom in a corner. Brushing her hands across her apron, she asked, “Where would you like me?”
“By the fire.” After so many hours spent there together, it was the obvious choice.
“I hope this doesn’t take too long. Clyde and Timothy will be wanting their lunch.”
“I’ll be done long before that. In fact,” Emily added with a mischievous grin, “I may corner both of them before they sit down to eat. Just relax your features. Pretend we’re having a conversation.”
She sketched in the full planes of the woman’s face—round cheeks, broad nose, lips and eyes that looked as if they might break into a smile at the slightest provocation. It was a face on which the joy of living spread itself thickly and then transferred to others.
She was nearing completion when a door opened, and Emily heard her uncle whistling somewhere in the house. She copied his tune, and he soon appeared in the doorway. “I thought I heard a magpie in here.” Then his tune turned to a low whistle of appreciation. “Well, if that doesn’t beat all,” he said as Emily turned the image of Jane around for their approval.
Jane grinned. “That does look like the face I see in the mirror each morning. Though I still don’t know what you want with a picture of a wrinkled old woman.”
“Because when I go back to Baltimore, I’d like a reminder of you.”
If it was possible, the woman’s smile grew even broader. “You’ve decided to go back, then?”
Emily nodded. “Thanks to you. You helped me remember some of the reasons I belong there.”
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” she said, repeating Uncle Timothy’s words. “I’m right pleased, child.” She gave Emily a hug and then ushered Uncle Timothy into the chair. “I’ve got to go start lunch. You sit here and do just what she tells you to, you hear?”
Uncle Timothy saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”
He sat and Emily set to work. She had sketched in most of his features before he asked, “So, have you heard from Lizzie?”
The question caught Emily off guard. She’d almost forgotten that Lizzie and Ketch had spent time here after their escape. “I have.”
“Isaac told me they were safely across the Canadian border.”
“Yes. Lizzie assured me her whole family is doing well.” She smiled, imagining how exhilarating it must be for them to awaken each morning to freedom.
“I’m glad to hear it. And I’m tremendously proud of you. Slavery is the great lie of our age. We may not be able to change it, but we can decide how we’ll react to it, and your choices show solid moral fiber.”
Warmth spread outward from the center of her chest as she filled in the texture of his beard. She might be bringing three portraits on the train with her, but her uncle’s commendation was the sketch she most wanted to carry with her back to Baltimore.
22
“Well, look who’s back,” Lucy said, brushing against Emily in the school hallway. “I didn’t see you return. I thought maybe you’d drowned in your own self-pity and rid us of one more Rebel.”
Emily’s retort was cut off by Mr. Woodward hailing her from his office doorway.
“Miss Preston, may I speak with you a moment?”
Emily left Lucy with a lingering glare and stepped aside to let a stream of students pass. Then she backtracked until she stood even with her instructor.
“Come inside.” Mr. Woodward closed the door firmly behind them and gestured her toward a chair.
“Mr. Woodward, I know what you’re going to say. I shouldn’t have taken so many days off class without explaining—”
He cut her off. “Did you find your holiday refreshing, Miss Preston?”
“Very much so, sir.”
“And have you returned with renewed energy for your studies?”
She nodded.
“Then we will say no more about it. Sometimes we all need time to re-determine our direction.” He circled around his desk but remained standing. “You have made quite an impression on me, young lady. I recall our conversation from a year ago, how driven you were to attend our school despite your father’s disapproval. I did not think I’d see you return then, either, but you did. And hardly recovered from a summer illness.”
Emily’s lips parted. “How did you know?”
Mr. Woodward smiled. “I make it a point to know my students, Miss Preston.” He began pacing in the narrow space between the desk and the wall, his hands clasped together before him. “I am aware of the time you took off for your brother’s passing and the extra effort you displayed to catch up with your classmates and resume your studies. You obtained high marks, and your instructors, I’ll add, speak very highly of you. I’m also aware of the wide variety of introductory courses you’ve since selected: oil painting, lithography, textile design.”
He held up a hand to halt her explanation. “Sampling classes is fine. But it does tell me that you haven’t decided on a single field of study. Based on this and your fine performance record, I have a proposal to make to you.”
He turned to face her. “I have been granted a pass to accompany my current photography classes to Washington this Friday where we will be visiting the studio of Mathew Brady. You may have heard of him?”
Emily shook her head.
“No matter. Mr. Brady made quite a stir in New York the past few months with his images of the Antietam battlefield. It just so happens I am acquainted with one of the cameramen who took those images for him. Alexander Gardner manages Brady’s Washington studio, and he has agreed to give my students a private tour.
“Here is my proposal,” Mr. Woodward said, leaning his weight on the desktop. “I am willing to let you join our expedition even though you are not enrolled in any of my classes. It will give you an excellent glimpse into the field of photography. If you then decide it does not suit your interests, it has cost you only the price of a train ticket and not twelve weeks’ work. But if the subject of photography intrigues you, I’d be happy to welcome you into my class next quarter.”
Emily nodded slowly. “Thank you, Mr. Woodward. Your offer is extremely generous. It seems I have nothing to lose.”
He smiled and straightened. “Very well. I’ll see you Friday morning.”
***
“You sent for me, Miss Emily?”
She set aside the book she had been paging through. “I did. Thank you for coming.”
Jeremiah rubbed his hands together and surveyed the room with interest, clearly wondering why he had been summoned to a Quaker meetinghouse.
“I thought this would be a good place to meet away from prying eyes,” she explained. “The door is always unlocked, and I’ve yet to meet anyone on the premises.”
“Is this about Mr. Black?” he asked, sinking into the pew in front of her.
She slid over a few inches to return to the center of a sunbeam, the only heat in the room. “Not exactly.”
“Is something else wrong?”
“No, it’s nothing like that.” She bit her lip and resisted the urge to fidget. “I’ve just been thinking a lot about Jack lately. Jeremiah, he told me who you are.”
Jeremiah stiffened, his eyes resting on the wall at the back of the room. “I wasn’t sure he had.”
“I was very angry,” she admitted. “I still am. But with my father, not with you. I realize now that I’ve been blaming yo
u for something he did, and that isn’t fair. I apologize.”
He nodded without looking at her. She couldn’t really blame him for his lack of warmth. The only time she hadn’t treated him with contempt was when she’d needed information from him. She cleared her throat. “Jack was adamant that we acknowledge our blood ties. Before he died, he charged each of us to take care of the other. I—I just thought it was time to honor his last wishes and get to know one another on a more personal level. If that’s all right with you,” she added.
His eyes touched hers and flicked away. “I reckon that’s what Jack would have wanted.”
Emily shifted the book on her lap. “I’ve, uh, just spent the holidays with someone much wiser than me. He reminded me that we’re not so different, you and I. Even after all I’ve learned the past two years, I was still elevating my own importance and diminishing yours. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
This time he searched her eyes to see just how deeply she meant what she said. “It’s in the past,” he said quietly.
“Tell me if I ever say or do anything that stupid again. All right?”
He actually chuckled.
She relaxed incrementally. “I’ve been very curious about your relationship with Jack. What was it like living with him in the army? What did you do?”
Jeremiah leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I set up and tore down his tent, did his laundry and mending, cooked his meals, and hired out the same services to earn my keep. It wasn’t much different from my life in Charleston except we never stayed in one place for long, and only a sheet of canvas separated us from the weather.”
“Did you live in Jack’s tent?”
Jeremiah nodded.
“And no one thought it odd that you accompanied him?”
“Jack was an officer. Many of the officers had servants with them. Besides, there’s a whole community that mingles with the army—the wives and children of the soldiers, sutlers selling wares out of the back of wagons, washerwomen, prostitutes.”
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