Julia leaned up against a work table, her arms crossed in front of her. “If you’s done with yo’ display, Miss Emily, it’s ‘bout time fo’ yo’ school to start.”
“I’m not going back,” she challenged. “I hate school.”
Malachi still stood where the spoon had fallen. “That seems mighty foolish, if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.”
“There’s some folks who would pay anything for what you’re casting away. If you’re having trouble with your studies, I could help you after supper.”
Emily laughed out loud. “What could you possibly teach me?”
He met her eyes evenly. “Maybe nothing. Maybe something.”
Her uncle popped his head through the outside doorway. He had changed into patched trousers with red suspenders pulled up over a stained and frayed shirt. His unruly hair poured over his forehead. “Ready to go, Emily? You get your wish. The school’s on the way to my timber lot outside of town. You may catch a ride on the wagon if you want.”
She looked him up and down and almost refused. He looked like a cross between a lumberjack and a character from a minstrel show. But she remembered the muddy streets. With an exaggerated sigh, she slapped her book shut.
Malachi smiled, his manner casual and easy once again. “See you later.”
She threw him a withering glare as she followed her uncle from the kitchen.
Outside, the team was hitched to an old buckboard wagon with several tools strewn about the box, along with an old, wadded tarpaulin. Her uncle handed her up to the seat and climbed beside her. She felt like a peasant as they drove out of the yard.
“Where do you hide this contraption?” she asked.
“I own that barn down the road,” he answered, pointing. The brick storage building looked like a hundred others in the city. “Why?” he grinned. “Don’t you like it?”
“I can’t say I’ve ever had the misfortune to ride in one before. Why on earth don’t you hire this done? Or burn coal?”
“Because wood is free, save for a little labor, and I like the work. A fellow can get stir-crazy sitting indoors all day.”
“Well, drop me off before the school comes into view, please.”
He chuckled. “If you insist.” Then he turned serious eyes on her. “Emily, I’d like to speak to you about Shannon.”
“I’d like to speak about her as well,” she interrupted. “It’s improper, the way she addresses you. You are the son of a wealthy planter; she’s a scullery maid.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “She’s a delightful woman who would like to befriend you.”
“I wouldn’t be friends with her if she was the last person in Detroit.”
His words became low and rough, like they’d been scraped over gravel. “Then she will respect that. But I demand you show her equal respect, because next spring Shannon is going to become your aunt. She has agreed to marry me.”
Chapter 5
“We have three rooms to clean tonight,” Shannon instructed as she led the way upstairs with a bucket of hot, soapy water. Cheerful as always, she seemed to have forgotten the awkward moment in the kitchen that noon. She turned into the first room at the top of the stairs. “To begin, we make the bed. If you’ll get on the other side, miss, we’ll do it together.”
Emily approached the bed hesitantly. She didn’t have the faintest idea what to do.
“All right, grab the blankets and pull them up, like this.”
With one tug, Shannon’s capable hands had her half of the bed smooth. Emily yanked at the top quilt, only to have the linens underneath bulge and wrinkle. By the time she worked them flat, she had mussed Shannon’s side.
“No, no. Just grab them all together and tug, like this. Then take the pillow, fluff it up nice, place it at the top, and fold the quilt up over it, just like that.”
Emily looked hopelessly at the neat bedding. She’d never get her side so perfect.
“You work at it,” Shannon encouraged, “while I start sweeping.”
As the maid waltzed and hummed around the room, Emily tugged and smoothed, but when one side seemed right, the other would pull crooked. She’d start over, only to find a lump where there hadn’t been one before. Her fingers were as clumsy with the bedding as they were with her clothing.
“I’m going on to the next room,” Shannon called from the doorway. “When you finish, start mopping the floor.”
At last, Emily smoothed out the worst of the bumps. She set the pillow in place, pulled the quilt over it, tucked it in, and stood back to admire her work. But like an uncooperative child, the pillow had created all sorts of new bulges. She finally gave it up in frustration.
Turning to the mop bucket, she stared at it doubtfully. She had seen the house slaves at home on their hands and knees scrubbing away at the floors. It didn’t look like something she cared to learn.
She knelt down, careful not to let the hem of her dress touch the floor, and pulled the rag up by one corner. It came with a rush of water. Pinching it with two fingers, she held the streaming cloth at arm’s length and dragged it lightly over the floorboards. Dipping it again, she turned and let the stream run on her other side. Soon a sloppy, soapy sea of water surrounded her. She perched on a dry circle like a castaway on a desert island.
By this time, the strong lye soap had begun stinging her hand. She cried out, dropping the rag onto the streaming floor, and popped her burning fingers into her mouth. The soap tasted awful.
Shannon poked her head in the door. “What’s the matter?” she asked, then caught sight of the floor with dismay. “Oh dear.”
The woman knelt beside the bucket and reached in with both hands. Gripping the rag, she wrung it out tightly and pressed it into Emily’s hand. “I’m afraid this is no afternoon tea party, miss. You’re going to have to get down on the floor and scrub.”
Emily looked at the maid with her rough, work-reddened hands. Her uncle had his choice of any blue-blooded belle in Charleston, and this was the woman he had chosen to become his wife?
“Come on now, on your knees.”
“But I’ll get my dress all dirty,” Emily protested.
“That’s no sensible outfit, that’s for sure. But if you insist on wearing it, it’s going to get dirty. Come on now.”
Emily huffed and she pouted, but at last Shannon had her pushing the rag back and forth on the wooden planks. “That’s it. Start in the corners and work toward the door. I’ll tidy up this bed just a bit.” With a flick and a tuck, the quilts laid flat.
“When you’re finished, I’ll mop the other rooms. I believe this is enough for your first day on the job.” With a sympathetic smile, the Irish woman left her alone.
Emily stretched and pulled, scouring away at the wood. Beads of sweat dampened her face and her back began to ache. Over and over—push, pull, push, pull. Her arms were screaming, and the skirt of her beautiful dress was a limp, sodden mess.
As her discomfort grew, so did her temper. And her uncle became the prime target. What right did he have to treat her this way? She was no servant. She hadn’t traveled a thousand miles to slave in his hotel.
Her rage worked itself into such a thunderhead that she stormed from the room. If Uncle Isaac wanted the room clean, he could do it himself!
She met Malachi coming up the stairs. He smiled. “There you are. Mama sent me to find—”
Emily slapped the dripping rag into his chest, not caring a crumb for his mama’s wishes. She stomped down the stairs, wrathful as a lumberjack fresh out of whiskey. Plowing through the lobby, she glared at a bewildered guest and slammed the door to her room.
Did her mother know this would be expected of her? Emily glanced around for pen and ink and was satisfied to find both in the small writing desk in the corner. She wasted no time.
Dearest Mother,
I have arrived safely, though I cannot assure you I am sound. The journey was frightfully taxing, and now my uncle intends to work me like a common maid. Why,
this evening he has me making up bedding and scrubbing the floors. Me! Your daughter! On hands and knees, cleaning a Yankee hotel!
I expect you are as shocked about this as I am, and I trust you’ll make arrangements for my homecoming, as I can’t bear the indignity your brother has bestowed on me.
I see now why you so seldom mentioned him. He is boorish and rude, and his mockery is completely intolerable. He is also sloppy in his appearance, though at the moment I can say little more for myself. I do wish you had let me bring Lizzie. I simply cannot function without her.
Emily’s anger began to wear off, replaced by an empty, sick hollowness. She rested her chin on her fist and gazed out the open window, her thoughts far away. She longed for Ella Wood so much her stomach ached with it.
A soft breeze wafted in around her, lightly perfumed with autumn blooms. What was happening at home? What tasks had Lizzie been reassigned to? Was anyone exercising Chantilly? Had Sophia driven off her latest tutor yet?
Emily missed her good friend and longed to talk with her. Sophia was a few years older than she was, and lately she thought of little else but the next round of parties. Emily hated the idea of being paraded through society in search of a husband, and her friend’s enthusiasm could grow tiresome. But Sophia had seen more of the world and could give very good advice. Emily was sure she’d know what to do now.
A movement outdoors caught her attention. The two bloodhounds came trotting into the yard. Their tongues lolled and their fur was completely covered with mud, as if they’d fashioned suits of the stuff to wear about town. They headed directly for the horse trough outside the barn door, planted their forefeet over the rim, and plunged in their muzzles.
Mr. Burrows and his two companions soon followed them into the yard. The men carried shotguns and looked as mud-spattered as their dogs.
“We might as well give it up and go home, fellas,” Mr. Burrows was saying. “We’ve been up and down that river a thousand times. Our boy is gone.”
“It’s the third trail we’ve lost this year, boss. And it always disappears right here. Wayne County,” Satterfield spat out, “nigra-lovin’ capital of the nation. Folks in these parts don’t care a whit for the law. Helpin’ runaways is stealin’ a man’s property just as sure as if they raided a slave cabin.”
“And they’re costing me a fortune.” Mr. Burrows’ mouth was a hard, thin line. He little resembled the cultured gentleman Emily had bantered with at dinner last night. “If I find out who’s behind it…”
With a violent jerk, he slapped the barrel of the gun into his palm.
Chapter 6
Emily pitched the dishwater into the grass outside the kitchen door. She had just finished the last of the supper dishes. Julia remained in the kitchen organizing her work space before retiring for the evening. She could hear the woman inside clanking pans and putting away a few remaining dishes.
Shivering slightly, Emily stepped into the middle of the backyard and looked up at the stars that were beginning to take over the darkening sky. The smell of garbage wafted over the stone wall from the alley beyond, and she could hear the rustle of rats as they fought over the choicest morsels. In the barn a horse whinnied, and the clop of hooves and crunch of wheels sounded on the road beyond the hotel.
Above her she could see Delphinus, the dolphin who had saved the life of the poet, Arion, and been given a place of honor among the constellations by Apollo. And there was the bright W that was Cassiopeia, the mortal queen who had dared brag of her beauty to the goddesses. And there the Big Dipper scooped up the Milky Way just as it did back home.
When Emily was a little girl, her father had taken her outside in each season and pointed out the pictures in the stars, explaining the ancient lore behind them. She wondered if he was looking up at the same stars right now.
“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”
Emily started. She hadn’t heard Malachi approach.
“Looks like you can just reach up and pluck one down, maybe set it in a ring,” he said. “It’d be the most beautiful piece of jewelry you ever laid eyes on.”
He pointed to the giant dipper. “See the last two stars in the bowl of the spoon? They line up just right and point the way to the North Star.”
Emily had learned that when she was six.
“When I was little, I remember Mama setting a candle in the window on the nights Daddy would get in late. I slept sound on those nights, confident that beacon was guiding my daddy home.”
He paused as he contemplated the night sky. “The North Star is sort of like a candle that God hung up special to guide His lost children. Lot of black folks looking up at it right now, directing themselves home to freedom.”
Emily remained stubbornly silent, like always, even though her rudeness never had any effect on the boy. He went on as if she were holding up her end of a friendly conversation. This time she cut him short.
She hung the washtub in its place and dragged herself inside and to her room. She felt more tired than she ever remembered feeling in her life. Five long days of school and as many evenings of labor had turned her muscles to lead. Well, perhaps not. Lead couldn’t possibly hurt so much. But tomorrow was Saturday, and she would demand some rest and some solitude.
A light burned beneath the door to her uncle’s office. She entered without knocking and nearly tripped over a pile of garden tools that lay sprawled across the doorway. She stepped over them and approached the desk determinedly.
Isaac hastily slipped a book into a drawer and turned to her with a smile. “Emily, you look exhausted. But I’m proud of you. You’ve been working hard, and I believe you have earned a day off. What do you say?”
She stalled like a wagon stuck in mud.
“I was thinking you might enjoy some time in Cass Park. You’re used to open fields. You must be feeling a bit confined by all these buildings. I’ve asked Zeke to accompany you for a few hours in the morning.
“It’s not Ella Wood, of course, but I believe you’ll find the bit of green grass and shade trees quite pleasant. I’ll have the carriage ready after breakfast.” He paused then and frowned, taking note of her silence. “Unless you have objections…”
She shook her head dumbly.
“Good, then it’s all arranged. Sleep well, and I’ll see you in the morning.”
~
The park wasn’t large, only a city block; smaller than her front yard at home. But the grass was soft and the shade inviting. And when she sat down on a blanket with Sophia’s penny novel open on her lap, not one building was leaning over her shoulder.
Zeke stayed with the carriage, dozing on the padded seat and soaking the sunshine into his bones. For the first time since leaving home, Emily felt relaxed and free.
She reached into her satchel and pulled out the bread and cheese Julia had packed for her lunch. She nibbled on it as she let the book carry her away to the adventure and romance of the recent Mexican War. It was far more exciting than the usual textbooks provided for her, and she could only imagine her mother’s reaction if she ever found out. But eventually Santa Anna was defeated, Mexico ceded over the southwest territories, and the dashing American soldier took the señorita home to become his bride. Emily tossed the book aside.
The sun had pushed the shadow of the tree off her blanket, and the fabric of her dress was clinging to the moisture on her back. As she moved to the shade she glanced toward the carriage. Zeke’s head had fallen across the back of the seat, and she could see his mouth hanging open. She stifled a giggle. He’d be mortified if he knew he’d been seen in such a position, but it was an opportunity she couldn’t pass up.
Pulling her watercolor paper from her bag, Emily penciled in the horses and carriage and detailed the old black man asleep in the seat. Then she took out her paints and breathed life into the scene. Washing in the brilliant blue sky and the living green of the new grass, Emily forgot for a moment that she wasn’t home in Ella Wood. The arrogant facade she had adopted on entering th
e city slid away, and she became fully absorbed in the familiar pleasure of her craft.
Finishing, she scrutinized the painting with satisfaction. She had managed to capture both the tranquility of the morning and the humble demeanor of the sleeping slave. She set the paper in the sun to dry then dug her math book out of her bag. Her fun was over; several long division problems waited to be solved. Mr. Marbliss never sent her away lacking for homework.
That week, she had learned the names of the two girls at the back of the schoolroom. The dark-haired one was Helen Brownstone. Her father had made some money in land investments. He was now active in the new Republican Party and an avid abolitionist. Helen inherited a full share of his fervor and never lost an opportunity to criticize Emily. She was unfailingly joined by Angelina Davis, whose father pastored a local church.
Emily had finished eleven of the math problems and was growing extremely frustrated when Malachi tramped across the park and flopped on the grass beside her. He peered curiously at the painting lying in the grass. “Did you paint that?” he asked.
Emily quickly tucked the damp picture beneath her schoolwork.
He shrugged. “What are you working on?”
Emily frowned. “What are you doing here?”
“Your uncle needed the carriage to meet some guests coming in on the afternoon train. He sent me to fetch Zeke and walk you home when you’re ready.”
A glance toward the street confirmed that the old man and the carriage were already gone.
Emily resumed her work without another word. As snobbish as she acted toward Malachi, she couldn’t figure out why he didn’t just give up on her.
The boy turned his head to study her tablet. “You’re doing these wrong. You forgot a step here. And here,” he said, pointing. “Let me show you.”
She jerked the pad away and continued working.
“All right,” he leaned back, “but you’ll see when you prove them. They won’t come out right.”
The Candle Star Page 4