“That’s wonderful,” I said, and impulsively hugged him. “Isn’t it?”
Warren gave me a forced smile then said, “Of course.”
He believed they would come. If not that day, then maybe the next. Grandmother wasn’t going to give up. Warren knew better. My smile faded, along with his. He sat on the edge of the bed, exhausted. I was so grateful to him, and I hoped he understood. I wanted him to know how much I appreciated him.
“Sleep in your bed, Mr. Stone. I can sleep on the floor.”
“Thank you, Lillian, but I will be fine on the porch. I have to stay awake, just in case they decide to ambush us at night.”
“I’m not tired. I can stay up on watch.”
He chuckled at my suggestion. I was immediately insulted, and he recognized it. “Thank you very much for your offer, Lillian. Yes, I am tired, but not tired enough to allow you to sit outside and get eaten alive by mosquitoes.”
He didn’t want me outside, but not because he thought I was a little girl, as I had speculated. I laughed at my own insecurities, and that made him laugh. The two of us sat laughing together, and it felt good. I moved next to him; the moment seemed right for me to place a kiss on his scruffy cheek to thank him.
He was surprised, and faintly asked, “What, may I ask, did I do to deserve a kiss from such a beautiful girl?”
I lowered my head and felt my whole body become warm and flushed. “For making me laugh. I haven’t laughed in a long, long time.”
He put his arm around me, sighed, and said, “Me, either.”
Neither of us were ready for sleep and it wasn’t only because I was rested and he felt the need to protect me. As we sat beside one another and the relief from the night air came and cooled the cabin, I felt our connection intensify. Warren had proved that he would lay down his life for me, instantly causing me to love him. I once knew Daddy would do that for me, and even Heath or Ayden without doubt; they all loved me because we were family. But Warren had just met me, and he did it because he desired to, and not just because it was the right thing to do. It was something more; I saw it in the way he looked into my eyes, and as his body tensed when I touched him.
These were all things I had witnessed before; I was aware of how a man desired a woman. I saw it in Daddy’s eyes; I saw it in Heath’s when he was in love with Clara, and it was there when Warren looked at me. Although I was petrified of what might come of our new and unexpected relationship, I was thrilled at the same time and wanted, for the first time, to be kissed by a man. I waited nervously beside him, twisting my long hair around my finger, for him to act on his yearning, and after a long, still silence he finally turned and faced me. I was ready for his lips to lower to mine, and I closed my eyes in anticipation.
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Chapter Sixteen
Warren didn’t lean in and kiss me; instead, he stood and cleared his throat, then excused himself. “I need some fresh air.”
I was stunned, then embarrassed. I wanted to cry in humiliation. He was outside pacing the porch while I wondered how I could have misread him. I was so confused by my feelings towards Warren and the mixed signals he gave me. I had been immature once again, stupid, and had embarrassed myself to the point that I feared he wouldn’t even want to be in a room with me. He was probably angry at me the way Heath was on the last day we were together. I must have teased him in some way; I had made some advance that disgusted him. It wasn’t lady-like; I was everything Grandmother said Momma was.
I needed to forget what had happened, so I curled up in a ball and tried to go back to sleep. Warren’s face kept flashing before me then his face would turn into Heath’s. I took the pillow and covered my face, then silently cried myself to sleep.
Warren was not in the cabin when I woke, heavy-hearted, in the morning. I got out of bed with a nagging reminder of the night before. I hoped he would still want me to stay, and I prayed he wasn’t angry. There was a good chance Warren could forgive my un-lady-like advances; after all, he had refrained from kissing me. I could only hope.
He was neither in the cabin nor on the porch. I waited for a short while to see if he would return from the outhouse, when I noticed Grandmother and Hamilton coming up on horseback. I ran inside, locked the door, and backed into the corner.
Where was Warren? What was I going to do? Maybe the constable had already taken him away and they were here to get me. I stood motionless, praying they would go away. I listened closely as the horses stopped; my heart was beating so hard I swore it would lead them right to me. I bit my lip and trembled until Grandmother called out, “Your daddy has come for you, Lillian. You need to come to Sutton Hall. He is waiting there to take you home.”
Daddy had come for me, finally! Without thinking, purely elated, wanting to get to him as fast as possible, I ran outside, and to my horror, realized I had acted too soon. I stopped in my tracks, but it was too late. A man, the constable, grabbed me, covered my mouth, and took me to his horse.
“Let’s go,” Grandmother said. I was forcefully gagged and lifted onto the horse, and then we galloped away.
I turned to look back at the cabin, to see if Warren had witnessed what had just happened, and I caught a fleeting glimpse of him lying face down on the ground, in a pool of blood, behind the stack of wood. He was dead; they had killed him to take me back. My stomach twisted into a giant knot, and I fell limp.
It didn’t take long to reach Sutton Hall, where I was taken to my own personal cell and stripped naked, whipped, and beaten by my horrible grandmother.
“How dare you run off with him!” she hollered, and with the rawhide whip, lashed my blood-streaked back for the tenth time.
“You are a vile tramp, an unholy creature!” she repeated, over and over, as my screams of pain turned into stifled moans.
“What did you do with him? Did you get in his bed? Did you allow him to put a child inside you?” she raged.
When I couldn’t answer, my throat closed up from sheer terror and pain, she knelt over me. I was face down and tied to the bedposts, but she grabbed hold of my hair and made me look into her dark, sinister eyes.
It was all I could do to muster the energy to say, “No.”
“I don’t believe you,” she hissed, then from her pocket she pulled out a pair of scissors and began to cut my waist-length, platinum blond hair.
“This will keep any man from ever looking at you again.” Within minutes, my beautiful hair was scattered all over the bed. She flew out of the room and locked the door behind her. She hadn’t untied me, and I lay there, my nude body covered in blood, filled with so much pain and humiliation that I wished she had put the scissors through my heart and killed me. I would have been better off.
I fell in and out of consciousness; I moaned from the pain of the whipping, and I cried over Warren’s death. By nightfall, my arms were burning from being stretched out and tied up. I couldn’t stand it any longer. With what little strength I had left, I maneuvered my wrists to loosen the ropes. It took hours, and I sobbed the whole time, moaning and screaming into the mattress, but finally I was able to free one arm, then hours later, the other. The room had no light; the outside shutters were sealed over the only window that may have let in any moonlight. I remembered the candle and matches in the armoire, but I had no strength to move. For the remainder of the night I lay in the darkness, on the soiled bed, and wondered if I was, indeed, in Hell.
Abigail was sent in to clean my wounds and dress me sometime the next day. I didn’t open my eyes when the door was unlocked; I believed Grandmother was there to beat me again, so I was surprised when I felt someone gently stroke my short, ragged hair. I slowly opened my eyes and looked up at Abigail. Her soft, pitying brown eyes were full of tears, and she whispered in my ear so no one could overhear, “I’m here. No more worries, Miss Lillian.”
Abigail carefully rolled me to my side and began to clean the dried blood from my back. She was as gentle as she could be, but the pain was so overwhelming that I be
gged her to stop. It was almost as bad as the actual whipping.
“I’m trying, Miss Lillian, not to hurt you more than you already are,” she said.
“Just leave me, please; let me get an infection and die,” I moaned.
She didn’t listen and continued. I gripped the mattress; I bit into it until she was finally finished. I turned over and breathed a sigh of relief. She went to the armoire and took out a dress.
“Your momma was so pretty. You look just like her,” she said, and carefully sat me up. “This was her favorite dress.”
It was a lovely shade of green with different shades of green on the pagoda sleeves and trim, and it had pretty lace on the collar and cuffs.
Abigail, I could see, had once been a beautiful woman, but years of slavery had taken its toll on her. Her face was full of lines; her brow covered in wrinkles. Her hair was fine and completely gray. Her hands were full of calluses from years of hard labor.
She was fond of me, and the fact that she knew Momma gave me the strength to sit up and be dressed. I was stiff and sore beyond belief, but glad to be decent once again and in the comfort of Momma’s favorite day dress. After I was clothed, Abigail left, but before she locked the door behind her, she smiled and said in a hushed voice, “You aren’t always going to be locked up.”
I lay still, staring at the door. Things had been so different the day before; I was only hours from freedom. I had laughed and been in the care of a man who was so genuine and sincere it melted my heart. It amazed and frightened me that one day could be so devastatingly different from the next. I wondered if any day could be worse than the day Warren was murdered and I was taken away to be brutally whipped and beaten, treated worse than an animal. I didn’t know where I could find the faith and will to go on to another day. It just didn’t matter. Daddy had forgotten about me; for some reason I could never begin to understand, he no longer wanted me. The realization of that left my heart shattered in a hundred pieces. I would never be the same again.
As the wounds on my back slowly healed, my heart remained crushed and void; it felt as if I no longer possessed one. I was left in Abigail’s care, and though she had obvious compassion for me, I was numb to her kindness. Each day was indistinguishable from the next. Each morning, Hamilton brought me one egg and a glass of water, and in the evening Abigail came with my cornpone and another glass of water.
Throughout the day and nights, between their quick deliveries of food, I lay in bed, staring up at the drab ceiling or at the door. I could stare and not even blink my eyes for hours at a time. I didn’t think of anything or anyone; my mind was a blank slate. Abigail remained committed to my care, both physically and emotionally. It seemed as though Grandmother didn’t want to know anything about my existence and didn’t return to the room after the beating.
One stormy summer afternoon, Abigail came in unexpectedly. I had been awake and staring at the ceiling all morning, listening to the rumbles of thunder that shook the enormous mansion.
“Sure is storming out there,” she said from beside me. “Mrs. Arrington went to Savannah. I’m here to brush your hair. It’s starting to grow back, see?” She handed me a mirror. I hadn’t seen myself in months, and as I gazed at myself for the first time since my long hair was sabotaged, I burst into tears. I was thin and feeble looking. My face was sickly pale, my eyes hollow and my beautiful, long locks of hair were gone.
“Now, now, Miss Lillian; it’s coming back. Sure has come in fast,” she said, trying to console me. “Let me brush.”
I sobbed uncontrollably as she worked out the knots in my short hair. She tugged, and it hurt, but not as much as the pain of the sight of myself. When she was finished, she pulled a bonnet from the pocket of her apron.
“When you don’t want to see yourself, you can wear this.”
It wasn’t a solution, and I didn’t care. “Just put it in the armoire,” I said, and collapsed back down on the bed.
“Hamilton is going bring you a fresh pillow later,” Abigail said before she left. “And,” she added, “Mrs. Arrington is going to Atlanta at the end of the week. She is going to be gone for two days.”
It was obviously unusual for Grandmother to leave Sutton Hall; Abigail made that perfectly clear to me. If it meant anything, I didn’t care. She left, and I fixed my eyes on the ceiling, staring up at it for the rest of the day.
Storm after storm pounded the deep South all week with wicked thunder and torrential winds—and inside, I felt as heavy as the rains. There was a leak in the corner of my room that mesmerized me. I stared at the water that slowly trickled down the corner and onto the floor; one drip after another. The sound of it could have been enough to drive someone insane, but I enjoyed the monotony. After all, it was my life—one day dripping into the next, one miserable, rainy day that never seemed to end. Even when Abigail came in to tell me that Grandmother was away and offered to take me out of my room, I didn’t care. I didn’t even bat an eye when she said it. What was there on the other side of the door? Certainly not my freedom. That was gone. There was no one to greet me, to hold me and love me and take me away. Those men were gone, either by choice or unfortunate circumstance.
“Come, Miss Lillian. The rain has stopped. Fresh air will do you much good.”
She tried to nudge me up, but I wouldn’t budge. Hamilton stood in the doorway and wildly waved his hands around, which was his way of communicating with Abigail. From what I gathered, they were husband and wife.
“She doesn’t want to go!” she shouted at him.
I shifted my eyes back and forth, trying to understand how she knew what he was trying to say. It caught my interest; it reminded me of all the years I spent learning sign language and the wonderful days I spent with Heath teaching Elizabeth. They were surprised when I sat up and said, “Doesn’t he know any sign language?”
Abigail frowned.
I demonstrated how to say, “Hello” in sign language, then “goodbye.” Then I proceeded to show them the alphabet, using my hands to make the letters. They were stunned.
Hamilton came over and used gestures to tell Abigail to have me teach him more.
I got off the bed and took his hand, then maneuvered his fingers to spell Hamilton.
“That’s amazing!” Abigail cried.
“I can teach you, if you really want to learn.”
“Sure thing, Miss Lillian.”
Hamilton was all smiles; I had never seen him smile before. And I was smiling inside, when I truly thought I never would again.
“Now, do you want to come out?”
I wasn’t certain. I hadn’t been out of the room for weeks. I was safe there and didn’t feel ready.
“Maybe next time,” I said, and lay back down. As exciting as teaching Hamilton a few signs was, I was drained and exhausted from using what little energy I had managed to store.
“Okay, then, Miss Lillian—next time,” Abigail said.
They departed and didn’t lock the door behind them. They were on my side, and to my own surprise, I actually felt an ever-so-slight glimmer of hope.
The first time I ventured out of the room, on the day Grandmother took a day trip into Savannah, I was like a terrified animal coming out of its cage. I walked slowly, encouraged by Abigail. The house seemed larger and more ominous than I had remembered when they brought me in after taking me from Warren Stone’s cabin three months before. Abigail had snuck me extra food during my confinement, so I had the energy to walk the long halls and creep down the grand staircase of Sutton Hall. I followed her like a lost puppy, and as we stepped outside, the intense sunlight made me shield my eyes and step back into the shadows of the old house.
“Come now, Miss Lillian.”
Abigail took hold of my hand and brought me into the sunlight. It was warm, and although the air was heavy and oppressive, I was happy to finally be outside. The bonnet that covered my short, ugly hair gave me the confidence to move on and look around, to take in the place around me. The sweet fragrance
of the mature magnolia trees were more distinct than any I had ever encountered before. The colors—the green leaves of the live oak trees, the pastel blue sky—were more vibrant than I remembered. But Sutton Hall loomed in front, menacing and threatening, and looking up at the ominous mansion made me shiver, especially when my eyes fell upon the only room with sealed shutters.
Abigail was anxious for me to see her quarters. We proceeded behind the mansion, past the spinning house and the small ice house until we came upon a row of shacks, the prior slave quarters. Now it was a simple home for Hamilton and Abigail. She stepped upon the front porch of the first drab building, then turned to me and said, “Well, this here is mine and Hamilton’s.”
It was sparse and meager, just as was my own. They had a small mattress on the floor to share, a rocking chair, and an old, broken table with two chairs. In the corner was a cradle. I supposed she had had a child, or children, that must have been grown and long gone. When she saw me gazing at it, she took my hand and led me back outside, into the woods near the river, to an overgrown area under a group of pine trees.
“Over here,” she said, stopping at a small stone. It was a headstone.
As I looked around, I saw dozens of them, all under fallen branches and layers of pine needles. Abigail had me look closely at the headstone, and as my eyes narrowed onto the letters, I gasped and stepped back. It bore the name “Jacob-Thomas.”
“That there was my baby boy,” she said somberly.
Jacob-Thomas, the name Momma repeated over and over after she went mad. The grave held the boy that Momma was so fond of and wanted to remember for always.
“I must get back to make the supper. You get back before dark.”
Abigail knew I wouldn’t try and run; I wouldn’t risk my own life, as well as hers. For certain, if Grandmother discovered I was let out, Abigail and Hamilton would be beaten. I wouldn’t put them in jeopardy, and after all, there was nowhere and no one to run to.
The Girl in the Lighthouse (Arrington) Page 19