“We always have, but my father has been insistent that Mother and I stay away from danger.”
“I remember. Now that Sumter has fallen, I think Virginia will be the obvious battlefield. Many of the regiments have already followed Jack and Jovie north. I’m guessing you’ll be back in Charleston soon. And you can look for me by August.”
Their flowers filled four vases. With Marie’s conversation skills and the comfortable afternoon behind them, dinner proved much more pleasant than tea. Emily was sorry when Thad had to leave. He had put no pressure on her and kept his visit lighthearted and fun. It was exactly what she needed.
As June spent itself in bouts of warmth and showers, Emily wandered the plantation for countless hours, often on Chantilly, sometimes with Lune in tow. She had a more defined purpose now. She covered the estate from end to end, closely observing not just its workings but the slaves themselves—the structure of their organization, their tasks, their free time, their punishment.
And she read her pamphlets.
Suddenly, she wasn’t alone in her reservations. Sarah Grimké and her sister Angelina, both Charleston natives like herself, set forth the same shadowy, nebulous criticisms that had begun to form in her mind and gave them logic and coherence. Quoting liberally from the Bible and the Declaration of Independence, they had a way of setting forth their views that made absolute sense, of turning false reasoning on its head.
I appeal to you, my friends, as mothers: are you willing to enslave your children? You stare back with horror and indignation at such questions. But why, if slavery is not wrong to those upon whom it is imposed? Why, if as has often been said, slaves are happier than their masters, free from the cares and perplexities of providing for themselves and their families? Why not place your children in the way of being supported without your having the trouble to provide for them, or they for themselves. Do you not perceive that as soon as this golden rule of action is applied to yourselves that you involuntarily shrink from the test; as soon as your actions are weighed in this balance of the sanctuary that you are found wanting?
The words and ideas found a home in Emily’s soul. But what could she do?
Nothing, it seemed. She knew she was powerless to change things. Even these two eloquent Southern ladies had failed to sway their homeland to their way of thinking. Feeling particularly helpless, she decided to take Uncle Isaac’s suggestion and contact her great-uncle Timothy, writing out a long narrative that explained the events leading to her predicament. She asked him point-blank how she was supposed to behave now that she finally understood all that was wrong with slavery.
Even as she penned the words, however, she recognized one more “little thing” she might remedy. On an evening in mid-June, she was waiting with an extra candle when Lizzie came in to turn down her bedding. Her maid’s cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. It was a positive change from the blank sorrow of spring. “Why, Lizzie, you look downright happy!”
The young woman smiled shyly. “Hopeful might be a better word.”
“It’s Ketch, isn’t it?”
The man had healed quickly and returned to work in the rice fields. But Lizzie’s tender attention had not been lost on him. Emily had granted Lizzie many hours during his convalescence, and their relationship had grown like the baby in Lizzie’s belly.
“He a fine man, Miss Emily.”
“Oh, don’t ‘fine man’ me, Lizzie. I can see you’re head over heels in love with him.”
Lizzie smiled. It was a careful smile, edged with the heartache that had matured her beyond her years, but it reached her eyes and transformed her face.
“Does he care for you?”
“I think so.”
“He’d be a fool not to.”
The maid helped Emily out of her voluminous skirts and into the soft simplicity of a nightgown. The change of clothing held a pleasure all its own. Pushing aside the mosquito netting, she climbed on top of her sheets rather than under them and slid a slender book from beneath her pillow. “Lizzie, don’t go yet. I’d like to read you a story.”
The maid squinted in the dim candlelight. “You gunna read to me, miss?”
Emily shrugged. “Well, you’ve told me ten thousand tales. I think it’s only fair I tell you one.”
Questions ringed the black woman’s eyes, but she stepped nearer the bed and stood waiting.
“Go lock the door, please.” At Lizzie’s suspicious glance, she shrugged innocently. “I don’t want to be interrupted.” She settled cross-legged and leaned back against the headboard with a mischievous smile on her face. When Lizzie returned with key in hand, she patted the space beside her.
“Miss Emily, you know dat against de rules.”
“Well, I’m not going to sit on the floor this time, so you’d better climb up here.” When she hesitated, Emily added, “That’s an order.”
Lizzie sank gingerly onto the edge of the mattress, as if the ticking was comprised of scrap metal rather than goose down. Satisfied, Emily picked up her book and began speaking soft and low. “How Rollo Learned to Read, by Jacob Abbott.
“‘Should you like to know how Rollo learned to read? I will tell you. It is very hard work to learn to read, and it takes a great while to do it. I will tell you how Rollo did it.’”
Lizzie shifted beside her, fingers picking at the bed sheet. “Miss Emily, you think dis be a wise choice?”
“Wise? Absolutely, though it’s definitely not legal.” She grinned. “The door is locked. We will not be overheard.” And she continued the story of young Rollo, whose father gave him a book with no pictures and promised to teach him to read it. He also promised it would be a difficult task, one that would require dedication and perseverance, but at the end of it he would “enjoy a great many happy hours in sitting down by the fire in his little chair, and reading story books.”
At the end of the first chapter, Emily set the book aside. “Reading is a difficult undertaking, Lizzie. And it does require effort. But you are an intelligent person. I know you could do it if you set your mind to it.”
Lizzie pressed her lips together so tightly that the skin around them turned white. Her voice held both hope and hesitation. “Miss Emily, you ain’t fiddlin’ wid me, are you? You truly gunna teach dis slave to read?”
“Yes, Lizzie,” Emily emphasized, “if you’re willing to learn.” Education was the purest gift she could think to give, the one treasure she pursued so desperately herself. It was worth any risk and would verify her change of heart, both to herself and to Lizzie.
The maid licked her lips as if she were about to bite into something sweet and uncommon. “Oh, Miss Emily, I be willin’!” she whispered.
Seated there in the dim light with the door locked and breaking countless rules, a spirit of adventure began to take Emily. She grinned. “Then let’s start at the beginning.” She pointed to a letter on the page. “This is an “A”. It is written two ways, as a capital like this and as a lowercase like this. It represents the sound that begins the word apple…”
22
July was an ill-tempered month, sultry and sodden, producing vapors that choked the lungs with every breath. It was the month when the calendar ceased turning and hung stagnant at the very bottom of the year. And when all else lay motionless, pestilence ranged freely through the fetid swamps, snatching lives like an old woman choosing among delicacies at a buffet.
This year, Lottie was the first to fall.
Emily ate lunch with little will, then spent the next hour in her room avoiding the worst of the heat that rose from the ground in steamy waves and cooked anyone unfortunate enough to be out in it. Morning still remembered spring’s freshness, but swarms of midges and mosquitos discouraged any exploration. So she spent innumerable hours indoors doing little more than languishing on a sofa, and even that saturated her shirtwaist with perspiration.
Emily had carried her box of stationary to the front parlor where the barest whisper of a breeze sneaked up the river and through
the open window. She had just begun a letter to Jovie when Marie’s harsh cry rang through the house. “Deena! Celia!” She hurried after the slaves to learn the source of her mother’s unusual alarm.
Lottie had crumpled to the floor in the hallway, her head lolling against the wall. “Find someone to remove this child to the slave cabins at once,” Marie insisted. “I will not have an epidemic in my house.”
Emily immediately dropped to the little girl’s side and pressed a hand to her forehead. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Emily, get away from her this instant. Let someone else handle it.”
“But what is it?”
Lottie mumbled incoherently as Celia scooped her into her arms. “Mos’ likely she got yellow jack, Miss Emily,” the housekeeper informed her.
Emily stepped back in alarm. The disease claimed several lives on the plantation each year—usually children, as adults developed an immunity after surviving the sickness in their youth. Unlike the lesser summer fever and chills, which could be controlled with quinine, yellow fever had no remedy, and no one knew its cause.
“Bring her to Josephine’s,” Marie demanded.
“Shouldn’t we try to do something for her?” Emily asked, recalling how solicitously her mother had cared for Mrs. Northrup.
“I won’t risk it. Jack nearly died of it when he was seven. I have no intention of exposing you.”
“But what about Lottie?”
“The slaves will tend her.”
Emily pursed her lips. It was no good arguing with her mother when she worked herself into a state of vexation, especially without the calming presence of her father.
“It’s the confounded night air,” her mother was saying, folding her hands in an effort to maintain her composure. “I’m writing to your father at once. We are moving to Charleston.”
“But Papa said—”
“Better an angry husband than a dead child,” she snapped. “Call Lizzie. We’ll leave in the morning.”
It wasn’t as if no one contracted disease in the city. The same epidemics that ravaged the countryside always found their way into the urban population—cholera, typhoid, smallpox. But the salty ocean breeze that swept in from the harbor did seem to have a curative effect. And it would certainly provide relief from the heat.
Emily obediently went in search of her maid and found her mending a tear in her gardening dress. “Lottie’s ill,” she said shortly. “My mother’s removing us to Charleston tomorrow. I need you to help pack.”
Lizzie shook her head mournfully and followed her from the room. “Poor chil’.”
“I’m going to sneak out to see her when my mother’s preoccupied,” Emily confided once they reached the confines of her bedroom.
“Miss Emily, you think dat be wise?” Lizzie yanked the mosquito netting to one side of the bed and began laying out undergarments to pack in the trunk when it arrived.
“No, but I’m going to do it anyway. I’ve grown very fond of that little girl.”
“You’ll put yo’self at risk. Let me check in on her.”
“I forbid it, Lizzie.”
“Why? I already had yellow jack.”
“What about the baby?”
Lizzie rubbed a hand across her belly, her face darkening with a mixture of emotions. “I never heard of it catchin’.”
“How are you feeling?” Emily asked gently.
Lizzie hunched against the wooden column at the corner of the bed and crossed her arms. “Ain’t so tired as before. An’ I wasn’t never sick. Josephine tell me I’m lucky.” She smiled bitterly. It was hardly the word Emily would have used.
“That’s not what I mean.” She closed the bedroom door, turned the key, and motioned Lizzie onto the bed beside her. “How are you feeling?”
For over a month, they had continued their reading lessons every night. Emily could sense changes taking place in her maid as surely as they were taking place in herself. They laughed more. They shared some. Ketch featured more and more frequently in their conversations, his name putting a sparkle in Lizzie’s eye. In those precious hours when all of the South was locked outside, they managed to recapture some of the easy camaraderie of their youth. But since the day at Ketch’s bedside, Lizzie had never spoken of her pregnancy.
Lizzie shook her head, her dark eyes deep and soulful. “Dere be plenty days I don’ wanna get outta bed. Days I could rip de chil’ and de memory right outta my body.”
Emily laid her hand over that of her maid. “Lizzie, you can’t punish the child for its father’s crime.”
“No.” Lizzie’s gaze turned inward. “No, not anymore. Not after I feel him move.”
“When?” Emily squeezed her hand. “Oh, Lizzie! When did you feel it?”
“Two nights ago, after I got in bed for de night. Can’t feel ’im in de day, but when I get quiet, dere he be, a flicker low in my belly. Like de mos’ fragile candle dancin’ in de darkness.”
Emily thought the description beautiful.
“It changed everythin’. I still feel angry. Fearful. Shamed. It be de mos’ horrible darkness.” Her face took on a look of wonder. “But now…dere be a candle.”
“Have you told Ketch?”
She shook her head. “No, miss.”
“You can’t hide it much longer.”
“We’ll be in de city now.” Lizzie’s lip trembled. “He won’ see.”
“Just tell him, Lizzie. He already knows what happened.”
“But what if…?” Lizzie quickly ducked her head. “I couldn’ bear it right now.”
Emily patted her hand and stood up. “I’m going to visit Lottie. Shall we go together?”
Josephine labored over the same bunk Emily had visited twice before, but this time the figure lying in it hardly filled the space. “How is she?” Lizzie asked, pushing open the door till it gave a tentative squeak.
At their entrance, Herod rose abruptly and stalked past them.
“Fever be down some,” Josephine answered. “She ain’t wanderin’ in her mind no more.” She dipped a cloth into a tin of water and wiped the girl’s face.
“Let me get you some ice, Josephine,” Emily offered. “It’s stifling in here. That water must be tepid at best.”
“Come outta de ground cold. Herod been fetchin’ it fo’ me.” The cook peered at them closely. “Yo’ mama know you in here, Miss Emily?”
“No, and I forbid you to tell her.” She stepped closer to the bed. “I refuse to leave for Charleston without a friendly wave to see me off.”
Lottie looked up at her with a faint smile and twitched her fingers where they lay on the bed.
“I’ll be looking for another just like it when I return, do you hear?”
The girl gave the faintest nod and winced in pain.
Emily laid a hand on Josephine’s shoulder. “I’ll go get that ice now.”
It took only minutes to fetch the key to the icehouse, chisel off several large hunks, drop them in a bucket, and make the delivery. She didn’t linger.
Her mother was pacing in the entryway when she hung the icehouse key back on its hook. “Emily, will you slip over to Fairview and ask Mr. Cutler if he’d be so kind as to post this letter and forward our mail to the city?”
“Do you want him to go today?”
“No, no. Tomorrow is fine, or whenever it’s convenient.”
“I’ll tell him.”
“I do wish I could wire ahead and make sure Jeremiah has the house ready for us,” Marie fretted.
Emily rarely saw her mother so needled. “Jeremiah always has the house ready for us. Don’t worry about it.”
“I know.” She sighed. “I just hope your father isn’t upset with me.”
“He’ll get over it.”
Maybe.
Lizzie was still with Josephine, so Emily chose a straw hat with a wide brim and tied it onto her own head with a silk scarf. Then, because the sun still beat down relentlessly, she slipped into the stable and asked Abel to saddle Chant
illy.
Lune frisked in the paddock as they left the yard, racing up and down the length of the fence and whinnying to his mother, but Chantilly behaved like a queen. It was the first time they had left the plantation together since the mare had grown heavy with foal, and Emily decided to forego the Cutler estate and make the four mile trip to town herself. Her mother would never know.
She nudged Chantilly into a lope. Just two days before, a tropical storm had weighed down the dust and freshened the grass. It caused little damage beyond a few torn limbs but had left behind air so thick Josephine could slice it and serve it with jam. Emily longed to return to the chill of the icehouse.
A few buildings sprang up from the horizon. Ladson couldn’t claim the population of Summerville, its big sister just a few miles up the track, but the South Carolina Railroad had brought a measure of prosperity. Emily rode past the church, the schoolhouse, and a small row of storefronts and stopped in front of the post office.
She handed her mother’s letter to the narrow-faced man behind the counter. “Hello, Mr. Porter. I’d like to collect the mail for William Preston and forward any further correspondence to Charleston, please.” She’d often accompanied her father as a child, and the postmaster hadn’t changed a bit in all that time.
Mr. Porter peered at her through his spectacles as he handed her a form. “You’re the assemblyman’s daughter, aren’t you?” he asked. “Elizabeth? Evelyn?”
“Emily,” she reminded him. She filled out her forwarding address as he thumbed through a carton of envelopes one by one.
“That’s it. Emily!” he crowed. “I never forget a face, even when it grows up on me, though names seem to sift out my ears.” He chuckled and handed over several pieces of mail. Her eyes lit on a large flat package wrapped in brown paper. “You here alone?” He peered around as if looking for William.
“Not alone,” she answered, thinking of Chantilly waiting for her just outside the door.
“Well, you tell your pa to stop in and chat if he has a minute.”
She just smiled and waved as she slipped out the door. As soon as she was clear of the window, she flipped through the envelopes. There was a reply from Uncle Timothy, but first she tugged out the brown paper package. Detroit. The marks to her latest assignment. She tore into it.
Ella Wood Page 22