“What foolishness you talkin’, Miss Emily?” Josephine hissed. “Ketch found her in de woods behind Mr. Turnbull’s place.” She hung a kettle over the fire to heat while Lewis spread a blanket over the girl.
“Mr. Turnbull did this?” Emily asked in disbelief.
Lewis answered. “We don’ know. Ketch didn’t see nothin’. Just heard her whimperin’.” He placed a hand on Lizzie’s head, his face churning with emotion, and strode softly to the door. “Come along, Lottie. We’ll step outside while de women tend her.”
Emily gazed down at the misshapen face with pity. Lizzie was hardly recognizable beneath a split lip and swollen eye. She knelt down and touched her cheek. “Lizzie, can you hear me?”
One brown eye opened and regarded her soberly. “Miss Emily?” she whispered.
“Yes, it’s me.”
A tear streaked from the corner of her eye and dripped into her ear. She moaned and clutched at her stomach.
Emily felt a hard blow of anger, like a hand pushing her toward rage she’d never known before. The attack was so brutal, so cruel. Her jaw clenched. “Who did this to you, Lizzie?”
Fear leaped to the young woman’s eyes and she didn’t answer.
“Was it Mr. Turnbull?”
Lizzie pressed her lips together and turned her head away.
“Was he black or white?”
Another silent tear rolled over the bridge of her nose.
Josephine approached with a basin of hot water. “If he black, Ketch and Lewis take care of him but good.”
Emily didn’t miss her exemption. If he was white, there was nothing anyone could do. She ground her teeth. “My father will see that justice gets done.”
Lizzie clutched Emily’s arm, stark terror in her eyes. “You can’t tell him.”
“Whyever not?”
“Promise me you won’t.” The girl held on with a desperate grip.
“All right, Lizzie. I won’t tell him.”
She relaxed, sinking into stillness that resembled sleep except for the chattering of her teeth.
Josephine knelt down, wrung out the rag, and gently wiped the dirt off Lizzie’s cheek. Then she pushed aside her skirt and began washing the blood from her legs. It stained the rag and pinked the water in the basin. If Emily looked only at the water, she could almost pretend she had just rinsed out a red brush. The fantasy shattered when Josephine hitched the skirt higher. The blood was too thick, too sticky to be paint.
Suddenly, Emily saw the phantom of a bleeding finger thrust into her face and heard the echo of Julia Watson’s far-off voice: “When we’s hurt, we bleed de same color, Miss Emily. You and I, we both bleed red.”
We both bleed red.
The words speared her with a new, utterly abhorrent idea. Far beyond anger and pity, this new thought sped her toward a revulsion so overwhelming that she rose and stumbled out the door. Clinging to the porch support, she fought down a rising nausea.
Black. White. Red. They were just colors, weren’t they? She was an artist. Pigments were her passion. But what if the shades had been rearranged? What if, instead of red on dark skin, it had been red on light?
Emily coughed, choked, steadied her breathing, and forced herself to ask the unthinkable question.
What if she’d been the girl lying on the bunk?
17
Emily spent half the night wrestling with her pillow. Lottie helped her wash her hair and dress for church the next morning, but she might as well have stayed home for all she heard of the sermon. Sorrow and revulsion churned within her gut like dark, gray clouds. She feared the slightest provocation might trigger a torrent of tears. Even the sight of Thad sitting one pew up and looking devilishly handsome with his cravat askew failed to divert her attention.
Maybe she should tell her father about the attack despite her promise. His ignorance made her feel vulnerable and unsafe, even more so than during the days following her own kidnapping. Deena spread the word that Lizzie had contracted a fever and brought her into her own room to sleep. Emily hated aiding in the deception, especially on a Sunday morning, but so far she had kept Lizzie’s secret.
The ride home was quiet. Emily brooded out the carriage window the entire trip, claiming that she hadn’t slept well when her mother asked why.
“Perhaps you should lie down for a while before dinner, dear,” Marie suggested.
Emily was going to follow her advice—until Abel met her in the stable yard. “Miss Emily, Chantilly done foaled while you was at church.”
Emily’s emotions swung in a wild arc, like a rope swing spanning a torrent. Rushing into the barn, she peered into the roomy box stall. The mare nibbled sedately at wisps of hay while a tiny, silvery newborn rested in the straw beside her. Emily gasped, her heart melting.
Jack caught her by the arm. “Mother said to retrieve you and force you to change out of your Sunday gown.” He dragged her from the stable—more enthusiastically than necessary, she thought.
“Let go of me, you imbecile! I can walk by myself.”
Her tugging was in vain. “Mother’s orders.”
He released her at the back door, his laughter chasing her to the second story.
Too impatient to call for Lottie, Emily reached behind her back and unbuttoned far enough to force the dress over her head. Hair spilled over her face as several pins dragged free. She yanked out the rest of them before kicking off several layers of undergarments and dragging on her oldest, plainest dress. She rushed from the room, twisting her hair into a loose braid, and slipped upstairs to the slaves’ quarters.
She slowed outside Deena’s room and quietly peered inside. She didn’t want to wake Lizzie if she’d fallen into the forgetfulness of slumber, but the girl lay on a cot staring vacantly at the wall.
Emily tapped lightly on the door. “How are you feeling?”
Lizzie didn’t move.
“Can I get you anything?”
No answer.
Emily stood in the doorway uncertainly. “Are you sure you don’t want me to tell my father what happened?”
“He’ll kill me,” she whispered.
“Who will, Lizzie?”
“Don’ make me tell you, Miss Emily. He promised.” She turned her head then, brown eyes troubled. “He’ll do it.”
“I want to help you, Lizzie. My father will protect you.”
The girl turned her face back toward the wall.
Emily’s heart twisted in her chest. “At least let the doctor treat you.”
Silence.
“All right,” Emily said hesitantly. “But if you don’t do everything Deena tells you to, I’m going to send for him anyway, do you hear?”
“Yes, Miss Emily.” Lizzie’s voice was dull. Expressionless.
Emily stepped from the room and moved quietly down the hall, though her unsettled spirit soon forced her to a standstill. She bit back tears of anguish and frustration. The exchange felt wholly unsatisfactory.
She stood in the hallway for several minutes, vacillating between returning to the tiny cubicle or exiting to the barn. As she hesitated, a few strangled sobs leaked out Lizzie’s door. Then they came in a rush, filling the hallway like a pressure chamber. Every breath labored beneath the crush of Emily’s ribcage as she picked her way back to Deena’s room.
Lizzie lay curled into a ball. Face covered, her body convulsed in an outpouring of misery. Each cry beat against Emily like a physical blow, but she had no more power to assist her than she would have to break up an actual storm. With tears blinding her vision, she fled to the stable and into Chantilly’s stall.
The tiny new horse was on its feet and nursing clumsily, its gray back a stark contrast against its mother’s black flank. Chantilly welcomed Emily with a soft nicker and turned her head in the direction of the foal, nearly knocking it off its feet with a swipe of her tongue. Abel had already cleared away the afterbirth and strewn the floor with fresh straw. Emily sank into the corner, battling the storm surge behind her eyes.
Abel folded his arms over the top of the stall door. “Sho’ is a pretty little colt, ain’t he, Miss Emily?”
“A colt?” she whispered.
“Mos’ positively.” He grinned. “What you gunna name him?”
A dozen possibilities flitted through her mind—Cloud, Stormy, Silver, Fog. She felt too distracted to sift through any of them. She just wanted to soak the peaceful scene deep, deep into her bones. “I think I’ll have to get to know him first.”
The foal turned at the sound of her voice, large eyes staring at her in wonder. It took an awkward step then swayed unsteadily on its feet.
Abel unfolded his arms. “I’ll let the two o’ you get acquainted.”
Within a few moments, the colt stood before Emily eye to eye. She reached out a hand to touch the velvet on the quivering muzzle. It tottered back a step but eventually succumbed to the lure of the straw and stretched out full on its side. She inched closer, reaching persistently for the glossy coat. After only a few strokes, the baby moved its head into her lap. She ran her hands over and over its neck in a soothing rhythm, and there in the privacy of the stall, the dike holding back her emotions finally burst.
Emily mourned for Lizzie, wishing she could turn back time and return to the carefree innocence of their childhood. Affection swelled her heart. She wanted to protect Lizzie, to share the hurt and extend a measure of comfort and understanding, but Lizzie was shutting her out. She felt so helpless. Apparently the long, close history they shared hadn’t transformed into a very deep bond if Lizzie wouldn’t even reveal the name of her attacker. Didn’t she trust her?
Emily gouged her fingers across the lids of her eyes. Had she given her any reasons to?
Emily knew the ideas and experiences she’d gathered in the North really had followed her home. They’d prompted a cursory exploration of her world. But she now realized those observations had all been made from within the comfort of the big house and the shelter of her father’s name. She’d retreated behind a barrier of color that was accepted, encouraged, even demanded in the South. But last night that shield had been removed. For one brief moment, she stepped into Lizzie’s shoes. She felt the barest edge of her suffering. And it scared her to death.
Emily grimaced, and for the first time since she’d turned ten years old, she forced herself to consider what her life would be like if Lizzie had become the lady and she had become the slave. In her mind, she dressed herself in castoffs, she huddled on the floorboards, she hovered, she waited, she brushed, she folded, she fetched, she polished. She submitted.
Emily knew something of restrictions. She was waging her own war to free herself from beneath her father’s thumb. But what would it be like to be denied protection? To be called stupid? To live under the threat of sale? To endure separation? To feel the sting of the lash? Perhaps, aside from childhood memories, she and Lizzie didn’t have much basis for friendship. Perhaps Emily really didn’t have much understanding to offer.
“A penny for your thoughts.”
Thad stood in the doorway, a tray of food in his hands. “You missed dinner. Your mother had this prepared for you and I volunteered to deliver it.”
Glad for the dusky corner that masked her tears, Emily worked to maintain a normal tone of voice. “Thank you. Just set it on the stool. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
“I’ll do one better.”
Emily wiped covertly at her eyes as Thad entered the stall and sat down cross-legged beside her. The tray he balanced on his lap contained a roast beef sandwich and a glass of milk. She’d been too upset that morning to eat breakfast, and she still wasn’t sure she’d be able to work any food past the tightness in her throat, but she reached for the sandwich and bit into it, being careful not to disturb the sleeping colt.
Thad reached out a hand and gently stroked the foal’s neck. “Jack and I are returning to school shortly. I wanted to come say good-bye.”
She nodded and swallowed. “Good-bye.” Then she took another huge bite, hoping it might discourage further conversation.
“Don’t mind your table manners on my account.”
“We’re in a barn,” she retorted through a mouthful of food.
“Touché.” He laughed and slid the glass of milk within her reach. “I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my weekend, but I wish you and I would have had more time to spend together.”
“I stayed busy.” Emily knew she sounded cold and dismissive, but she felt too drained to fight his advances. She wished he’d just leave.
He studied her carefully. “Emily, are you all right? You’ve seemed a little out of sorts all day.”
“I’m fine,” she said flatly. “Just tired.”
He raised his eyebrows but let her eat without further questions.
She took a long drink of milk to wash down the sandwich and returned the empty glass to the tray. Though she hadn’t tasted a bite, the food steadied her. She managed a smile. “Thank you.”
Mischief teased up the corner of his lip and coaxed his dimple out of hiding. “You, uh—” he touched beneath his nose “—have a little moustache.”
She swiped at it.
“Here, let me help.” He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her lip. “All gone.”
She lifted two fingers to the spot, the nerves vibrating with his touch. “Thad, I think you should go.”
His eyes flickered searchingly between hers. Then he sighed. His face held defeat. “All right, Emily. If that’s really what you want.”
He rose and carried the tray from the stall, but there he paused, his body propping the door open. “Before I leave, I have to know something.” He set the tray aside and turned faced her. “Are you holding me at arm’s length because I don’t stand in line to own land?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“Because I’ll still inherit a fair amount of money. And I intend to make a good deal more. I’ll buy land. My father has not been idle teaching me the value of investment.”
She shook her head and dropped her gaze to his shoes. “It’s not the land or the money.”
“Then what?” When she didn’t look up, he returned to kneel earnestly in front of her. “Why do you continue to refuse me?”
She closed her eyes as her chin trembled. “Please, Thad, I can’t do this right now.”
“Emily, are you sure you’re all right? You look like you didn’t sleep at all last night.”
She opened her eyes and met his genuine concern. “Why do you care?” she asked. “What am I to you that you keep coming back even when I turn you away again and again?”
His eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “You don’t know?”
“I can’t fathom the reason.”
“You’re beautiful—” he began, but she cut him off.
“Many girls are prettier than I am.”
“But they don’t have your fortitude—the grit that makes you you.” He settled back on one haunch and tried to explain. “Like firing that comment back at me about being in a barn, and saying it with your mouth full.” He grinned. “Most girls wouldn’t dream of doing that. Or interrupting me, or asking forthright questions.”
She frowned. “These things are attractive to you?”
“Yes! You’re confident, you’re intelligent, you’re daring, and you don’t care one whit what anyone thinks of it.” He took one of her hands. “You are unapologetically who you are, and I find that utterly irresistible.”
She dipped her head. It was all too much—his admission, her strong attraction to him, and the overpowering ache for Lizzie. So many emotions churned within her heart that some of them leaked out as tears.
“Will you at least tell me what’s bothering you?” he asked, gently squeezing her hand.
She used her free one to swipe roughly at her eyes.
“I want to be your friend, Emily. You can trust me.”
“The secret isn’t mine to share.”
“Please let me in.” He lifted her chin, forced her to look into
eyes so earnest, so tender, that a sob hiccupped in her throat. He wiped away the droplet that tracked down her cheek. Then his lips were on hers.
The kiss lingered, soft and gentle. Emily was wrapped in an illusion of movement, like sprawling motionless at the bottom of a grassy hill and feeling as if she was still rolling. She didn’t dare move lest the sensation diminish.
Thad pulled away, eyes inches from hers, hands still firmly holding her face. “Please say yes.”
Emily felt fuzzy and vulnerable, drawn to the promise she saw in his eyes. “I can’t,” she whispered, forgetting the reason but knowing one burned strong somewhere within her.
“Thad!” The call came from out in the yard. “We have to go!”
Misery filled his eyes. A mixture of reluctance and resignation. Snatching a few more precious seconds, he pressed his forehead to hers, prompting shivers that radiated out to her fingers and toes. “I don’t believe you mean that.”
“Thad!” Jack called again.
He squeezed her fingers. “I’ll come back as many times as it takes.” Then he was gone.
Emily crumpled against the wall of the stall, waking the foal who stumbled to its feet. A shadow tugged at her heart, some tragedy she wouldn’t allow to resurface. For the moment, she focused only on the memory of his kiss.
18
“Emily, I’d like you to accompany me when I call on Mrs. Northrup this afternoon,” Marie announced as the two of them finished a late luncheon on the garden patio. “She’s not faring well.”
Emily pushed aside her empty plate. “Abel just finished braiding a cotton halter for Lune. I want to slip it on him for an hour or two.” The colt had become as impossible to catch as the moonlight he was named forr. She hoped to acclimate him to the headgear sooner rather than later.
“You’ve spent every waking moment with that horse for the past two weeks,” Marie scolded. “I’ve asked Josephine to make up a basket of tea cakes. The experience will be good for you.”
Emily groaned. “Do I have to? I’m perfectly horrid at making small talk.” Entertaining a poverty-stricken invalid sounded even worse than brief dances with strangers.
Ella Wood Page 17