Royal blushed. “How do you know I said that?”
“I listen more than people think I do.”
Royal cast his gaze to the ground. “I said it to impress your father.”
Samantha wanted to ask him why, but then she remembered Odus and Amira.
She stood up. “I’m going.”
Royal held her arm. “Kiss me,” he said.
“What?”
“Whether you like it or not, a week from Friday you will be my wife. So, kiss me.”
Samantha resisted the urge to slap him. “No.”
“Okay,” he said, getting up. “I’ll just go tell your parents that you snuck out of your room when you were supposedly too faint to attend your own debutante ball.”
She thought about the gun in her cleavage. How she would have loved to brandish it and prove what a good shot she was. But she thought about the two slaves on the terrace above and how, whether she understood it or not, they were vital to Eli’s plan of convincing her father that they should wed. As with everything else today, Samantha went along with what was asked of her.
She lifted her face, waiting for Royal’s lips. Instead, he grabbed her and pulled her to him with such force that her breasts hurt as they were pressed into his hard chest. The kiss was horrible, his tongue swishing around the inside of her mouth. She pushed him away, fearing she might be ill.
“Good night,” he said.
Samantha watched him go inside. Before lifting herself up onto the terrace roof, she wiped her face and spat Royal’s kiss onto the ground.
The slaves weren’t on the roof of the terrace. Had they gone to the other side and jumped? Part of her hoped they had. This was all too much. She just wanted things to be simple, to be easy. But it seemed her life would never be simple again.
She crawled through her window and found the two slaves huddled in the dark corner by her bed. As Samantha got closer she saw that Amira was shivering. For goodness sake, it’s not even cold, Samantha thought.
“If you make a sound, we’ll all be hung. Now follow me.”
She took the lantern from her bedside table and walked towards the doors to her walk-in wardrobe. She struck a match and lit the lantern, leading Odus and Amira past rows of dresses worn once and shelves of shoes too impractical to walk in. At the end of the wardrobe, she crouched down and pushed several hat boxes to the side, revealing a hatch to the eaves that was smaller than she remembered. It popped when she pushed it out of its hinges, and Samantha and the two slaves held their position while waiting for signs that they were about to be discovered. After several seconds, satisfied that no one had heard, she crawled into the eaves.
The space under the eaves was a long corridor about four feet wide, running the length of the house. Its ceiling sloped in line with the roof above, making it hard to stand. There were no windows or ventilation, rendering this the hottest or coldest part of the house, depending on the season and time of day. The lantern’s light threw eerie shadows over her rocking horse and the old doll house she’d inherited once Georgia lost interest in make-believe. The cradle her grandfather had made held a small blanket and a pillow. Samantha picked them up, blew the dust off and handed them to Odus, his long figure hunched against the lean of the ceiling.
“This is the best I can do. I’ll come back as soon as it’s safe in the morning.”
She crawled to the hatch opening.
“Ma’am?” said Odus.
“What?” she snapped.
Odus’ eyes darted between Amira and the rest of the small space. “I’m sorry to ask you to do more than you’ve already done, but we gon’ need water in here. And a place to …” He cleared his throat. “You know.”
Samantha wanted to scream. Was it not enough that she was risking everything just having them here? “Typical Negro,” she could hear her mother say. “Never knows when to just shut up and be thankful for all we do for them.”
“Wait here,” she said.
She emerged from the walk-in wardrobe and a wave of fatigue washed over her. All she wanted to do now was sleep and hope to wake up to have this nightmare over. Instead she had to procure water and a chamber pot. It was all too much. I’ll just lie down for a minute, she thought, and figure out what to do. An extra chamber pot? Who ever asks for such a thing?
As she lay on her bed, listening to the rumble of conversation drift up the stairs, she decided to tell Oma and Chimi that she felt sick and might throw up. That would justify an extra chamber pot – even a simple slave like Oma would understand not wanting to throw up into your own excrement. She didn’t know how she could ask for a water canteen or similar. Maybe she could say she lost the one she kept in her saddle bag and needed a new one. But that couldn’t happen until tomorrow. She considered giving them the water that was left in her washing basin, surmising that something was better than nothing, but before she could act, she fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter 11
Annie sat cross-legged on her bed. The late afternoon clouds were gray and high. Outside the snow fell quickly and quietly as if hoping not to be noticed. Annie knew she should do something about the front path – if the snow came down harder it would soon be difficult to leave the house – but she couldn’t muster the motivation. Not with the mystery of Samantha Weston absorbed into her every pore, allowing her to forget that she was here on borrowed time and that at any moment she might have to leave.
Laid out in front of her was everything she and Theo had collected so far – Samantha’s letter to her father, the Beckwith Station Gazette report on Samantha’s ball, the knife inscribed with the name Elijah Fabre, and the two lists of letters and numbers – one from the Bible, the other from Theo’s barn. The only connection she could make between them were the initials SW and EF, and the date March 27, 1861.
The fact that Mont Verity and Beckwith Station were linked to her old home still seemed unreal. Could it be that Annie and Samantha Weston had walked the same paths over the Virginian landscape? She hated now that she’d not paid more attention to her surroundings – she might have passed something relevant to Samantha Weston and never even known it. It made her more homesick than ever.
Samantha’s letter was the one thing Annie came back to again and again. Sometimes she would recite it before she went to sleep and sometimes, in her dreams, she would see it being written – the pen, the quill and the light from the kerosene lantern flicking over windowless walls. She had this dream several times, waking up in frustration that in the dream she hadn’t thought to ask Samantha Weston any questions.
But this morning, having woken from the same dream again, Annie realized why she could not talk to Samantha in the dream:
Because it was not Samantha writing the letter. It was Annie.
I cannot tell you where I am. I do not want to endanger those around me.
We will probably never see each other again. After all that has occurred, there are many reasons why a return to my old life is impossible.
What Annie wouldn’t give for a miracle whereby Samantha Weston would materialize in front of her. They would talk like old friends, she was sure.
“You have no idea how much we have in common,” she’d tell her. “We’re both on the run, both not knowing if we can go home again.”
But what I really want you to know is that I am in love. Never did I think the love of my life would come to me in the shape and form that it has … Loving him, being able to love him – it has made me happier than I can describe.
“Who is he?” Annie wanted to ask. “Elijah Fabre? Someone else?”
And if Samantha Weston could experience such love while on the run, did that mean Annie could too?
She got off her bed and looked at her watch. Theo had said to come over anytime after school. It was nearly three o’clock.
It had been two days since she’d last seen Theo, and one thing was clear: she missed him. She missed his laugh and his energy. She missed his enthusiasm for Samantha Weston and his enjoyment of
their journey thus far.
If she left now she could be there as he got off the bus. She didn’t want to seem too eager, nor did she want to wait. She was starting to feel like the giddy cheerleader she used to be, without the pom-poms to hide behind.
She checked herself in the mirror and ran her fingers through her hair. It felt coarse, like it used to after straightening it, even though she hadn’t seen a straightening iron since Virginia. She pulled out the contents of her pocket to see if she enough money to justify buying conditioner. All she had was the memory stick. She looked at it lying in her palm and sighed. She’d done nothing since uploading the photo in Theo’s room.
Soon, she thought. Soon.
Annie tiptoed downstairs and past the living room door so as not to disturb her mother. She turned the corner to the kitchen and jumped at the figure standing by the stove.
“Mom?”
Her mother stared at the gas rings like they were landmines. The baggy T-shirt and sweatpants she wore were so loose Annie couldn’t be sure her mother was really underneath them.
“I want to make enchiladas.”
“What?”
“I want enchiladas. But I can’t remember how to make them.”
“I’m not sure either. I never really watched Dad when he made …”
“I taught him how to make them. He liked to pretend they were his, but they weren’t. They were mine.”
The last time she’d had her father’s enchiladas was on the night everything changed. Her mother didn’t eat them that night, which was normal. Most of the time it was Annie and her father eating all the food he made. Her mother always had salads with low-fat dressing or poached fish with steamed vegetables. Annie couldn’t understand why her mother would now want something she never used to have.
“Okay,” Annie said, “let’s sit down and think about what we need.”
She led her mother to the kitchen table and helped her into the chair. She found a piece of scrap paper and a stubby pencil.
“We need tortillas,” said Annie.
Her mother stared into space. “Yes.”
“Passata.”
“Yes.”
“Smoked paprika.” Annie paused. “Actually, I’m not sure the Store at Five Corners will have that.”
Her mother looked like a child whose china doll had just been smashed to smithereens.
“No, I mean, we just have to improvise,” said Annie quickly. “We’ll have to use regular paprika or something. It’ll be the Vermont version. Vermont-a-ladas.”
Annie laughed at her own joke. Her mother didn’t.
“You’re taking such good care of us,” said her mother.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are. Getting us from place to place. I couldn’t have done that, not after … I don’t even remember half of the places we’ve been.”
“We’ve been a lot of places that aren’t really worth remembering,” she said, shuddering at the memory of motels with cockroaches and winged ants.
“Yes, but I don’t even know what states we’ve been through.”
“Most of them, it feels like.” Annie retraced their journey. “The Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Kansas, Nebraska …”
“Jesus …”
“Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, New York, then here.”
“And you managed to avoid the ones we’d lived in when Dad was in the army.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t easy.”
“We moved around so much when you were little.” Her mother paused, staring into space. “You were all I had then.”
“But then we moved to Virginia …”
“Yes. Everything changed in Virginia.”
“Why weren’t you happier there? We’d finally settled, like you wanted, but you still seemed so sad.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t matter now. None of it does. Our lives have been completely ruined. How can anything else matter?”
“I just want to go home,” said Annie.
“I don’t.”
“Mom! How can you say that?”
“You’re right. I was miserable there. And you, I didn’t like what Virginia made you.”
“Not this again …”
“You became a different girl once Jenna and Marcy were on the scene.”
“Why can’t you just accept that they were the first real friends I ever had, okay? We moved around too much before that for me to have anybody for very long. We settled down in Virginia, and Jenna and Marcy wanted to be my friends. Why does that make you so mad?”
“Because they wanted to change you. And you let them. Your father let you spend a fortune on clothes and hair and tanning. You stopped doing your homework because you were always God-knows-where with them.”
“Great. You don’t talk to me for months and when you do it’s to have the same old argument we used to have.”
“We’re done.” Her mother stood up and walked towards the living room.
“That’s not fair. You can’t start a fight and then just walk away.”
“Talking changes nothing. We’re here. It’s better just to keep the peace.”
Annie had so many things she wanted to shout. So that’s why you stopped talking? Because it’s easier? She couldn’t help it – she hated her mother right then, just like she’d hated her after any of their arguments at home. Their life was upside down, yet some things were still the same.
Annie looked at the enchilada ingredients. She added cheddar and onion to the list and grabbed Theo’s coat on her way out the door.
Annie lay on her stomach on Theo’s bed, her feet hovering in the air, picking at the sandwich Theo insisted on making for her. She’d eaten half of it and it was amazing – artichoke, chicken and goat’s cheese on olive bread. If it was possible to fall in love with a sandwich, then she had just done it.
Theo sat at his desk, entering searches into Google. In between mouthfuls Annie tried to focus on studying the two lists of numbers and letters. Trouble was, she was distracted. Theo was sitting at that perfect angle whereby she could watch him without him being aware. She watched his wrist as it operated the mouse and the roll of the sleeves on his plaid shirt. She looked at the thick, dark hair on his head and wondered what it would be like to run her fingers through it.
Get a grip, she told herself.
She forced herself to look away and fixated on the soft weave of Theo’s green flannel duvet. It was so warm, so alluring – she could imagine herself underneath its feathery down, cozy and safe. She buried her head into the fabric and inhaled Theo’s smell.
“Argh,” said Theo.
Annie lifted her head. “What is it?”
“This is so frustrating. I can’t find anything else on the Fabre family – no births, no deaths, no marriages, nothing.”
“What about where you found the deb ball article? Are there other archives on there?”
“No, it was part of some weird site about cotillion history and memorabilia. If you search for Beckwith Station Gazette then that site is the only result worth anything.”
Annie thought for a moment. “If the deb ball article came from a specialist site do you think we could ask the site’s owner where she got it?”
Theo practically jumped out of his chair. “Fantastic idea.” He brought up the site and clicked on Contact me.
“Yes!” he exclaimed, and picked up the phone on his desk.
“Who are you calling?”
“The site owner. Her number’s right here.”
“You’re calling her house?”
“No time like the present,” he said.
He dialed. Annie held her breath.
“Hello? Hi, is this the owner of southerncentral.com?” He looked at Annie and gave her a thumbs-up. “My name is Theo Mason and I got your number from your website. Sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you could tell me where you found a particular ar
ticle on your site? Yes, it’s the one dated March 7, 1861 from the Beckwith Station Gazette. Sure, I’ll hold on.”
Annie scrambled to the edge of the bed. “What’s she doing?” she whispered.
Theo put his hand over the receiver. “She said she’s just going to double-check. Hello? Yes?” He opened his desk and pulled out a piece of paper and a ballpoint. “Okay.” Annie refrained from getting up to look over his shoulder. “Okay … And are those archives online by any chance? … Okay … No, that’s really helpful. I’ll try it. Thank you. Thank you so much.” He hung up and started typing.
“What did she say?”
Theo didn’t answer. She watched his eyes flicker over the search results. He clicked the mouse onto parts of the screen that Annie couldn’t see. Then she saw him open another browser window and type some more. After a few seconds he smiled and turned the screen towards her. The picture at the top of the page was a photograph of the Blue Ridge Mountains, just as Annie used to see it in the distance when driving down the highway. Annie swallowed.
“Clinton Community College Library. She got it off their archives.”
Annie stood up. He was on the library’s website, on the page marked Opening Hours. The address appeared below, and Annie put her hand over her mouth. It was a road she knew, one that was a mere ten-minute drive from her old house.
“It opens at 9am on a Saturday.” He alt-tabbed to the other browser window. “According to Google Maps it’s a nine-hour drive, but I reckon we can do it in seven. So, if we leave here at 2am …”
“Whoa, wait. Leave? To go where?”
“To Virginia! So if we leave …”
“We?”
“Sure. You want to know what happened to Samantha Weston, don’t you? This is the best lead we’ve got.”
“Why can’t we just call there and ask them to send us what they’ve got?”
“No, she said it’s on an old computer that’s not online.”
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