Ella Wood

by Michelle Isenhoff

  Emily’s throat constricted, clamping over a swallow of bread that hadn’t quite sunk to the bottom. Her fit of coughing took a full minute to pass, alleviated only by the glass of water Zeke delivered. “I’m all right,” she gasped, sinking back into her chair. She swept air into her lungs in gulping mouthfuls. Nothing more was said of moving.

  William looked warily between his wife and daughter. “So, what did I miss in Charleston?”

  Marie latched onto the safe question with enthusiasm, recounting as many events as she could remember. Proudly she relayed her daughter’s participation, the lineage of some of the young men she had danced with, and how beautiful and lively she had looked. William began to relax. At last, his daughter was behaving in the manner expected of her.

  “And her portraits were the rage of the Confederate army,” Marie continued. “The poor dears. They all wanted an image to send home. We must have entertained, how many, two dozen? Our daughter proved quite an able businesswoman.”

  His eyes cut to Emily, and she saw the warmth drain from them. “You sold portraits to soldiers?”

  Marie’s prattle dwindled to a halt.

  “You should have asked me first.”

  With perfect calm, Emily retorted, “Perhaps I would have if you were ever home.”

  “Really, William, what is the problem?” Marie asked. “We entertained so many nice boys—soldiers serving the South—and I sat in on every session.” Unaware of the Maryland Institute or the tension surrounding it, she was genuinely baffled.

  But Emily understood all too well. The money she earned was another reminder of her defiance. A bid for independence that threatened him, that challenged the male-dominated society he ruled. As such, it could never be tolerated.

  “So, what do you plan to do with all your money?” he asked tightly.

  “I’ve already spent it.”

  “On what? Toffee and handbags?” It was a slight, however subtle.

  She thrust forward her chin. “I purchased a slave. Ketch’s son.” The very slave he had failed to acquire. With her own profits.

  His brow grew menacing. “I gave you no leave to make such a purchase—”

  “You wanted the boy, too,” she broke in. “You’re angry because I’m the one who accomplished it.”

  “I am angry because you defied me.”

  “I did no such thing!”

  “The boy goes back.”

  Tension as thick as a wooden partition slid into place between them. Marie quietly intervened. “She made a deal with Elijah Johnson’s son, William.”

  “It was not my deal,” he snapped.

  “It was a deal, and forcing her to break it would make you untrustworthy, not her.”

  “It was a foolish move. Now Mr. Turnbull has lost the best leverage he had against an unruly slave.”

  “Ketch hasn’t caused a lick of trouble since he came here,” Emily retorted.

  “Thanks to Mr. Turnbull’s excellent discipline.”

  She rose, trembling. “If you still need some sick and twisted measure of control over him, you’ll have it. He’s going to marry Lizzie.” Her words were sticky with contempt. “Unless in your warped need to play God you forbid it.”

  His hand came down heavily, catching her across the mouth so that blood smothered her tongue. After the initial wave of shock, she was filled with hot and prickly triumph. Like Sophia’s slave Keturah, she had provoked him to such anger that he had struck out. It was a neat coup, and she had won.

  This time, William stormed from the room while Emily returned to her seat with a smug smile, perversely pleased with her victory.

  27

  William returned to Columbia, and Emily’s seventeenth birthday came and went with no fanfare apart from a small cake. Not that she wanted another party. But she couldn’t help thinking how drastically circumstances had changed in so short a time. By comparison, the world was a remarkably fine place one year ago. The name Lincoln had meant nothing. Armed conflict was a hazy notion found only in history books. Her brother remained untroubled and safely enrolled in school, or so she had thought. Her father—kind, wise, and brave—stood head and shoulders above every other man in the world. And Lizzie…dear Lizzie. What a difference twelve months made!

  And then there was Thad.

  He showed up during the middle of the week a few days after her birthday, shamefaced and contrite. “Hi,” he said when she met him in the parlor.

  “What are you doing here?” Three weeks had passed since he’d stormed off the beach at Sullivan Island, and he’d sent no word. She had almost resigned herself to the end of whatever it was she had allowed to grow up between them.

  Almost.

  “I see you haven’t missed me.”

  “I’ve been preoccupied.” Between Lizzie, Ketch, Robin, Herod, and her father, she’d had plenty to fill her thoughts. Sometimes, though, in the quiet of night, they would wander back to the sultry evenings of music, dancing, and frivolity. It had been so easy to intoxicate herself with him.

  He reached out a hand to brush her hair away from her face, but she neatly evaded his touch. His jaw clenched. “Emily, I’ve had three weeks to think about what happened. I was angry. Jealous. We both said things we didn’t mean. I’d like to expunge that day from our record, if we could, and pick up where we left off.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think we can do that. It was a dream, Thad. An illusion. The weeks in Charleston were exciting and glamorous, but that’s not the life I want. It never has been.”

  “Our life can be whatever you desire it to be. I know that our timing isn’t right yet. But someday—”

  She held up a hand to stop him. “I’ve had time to think about this, too. I haven’t been honest with you.” It was time to tell him everything. She took a deep breath. “I’m leaving.”

  He crashed to a halt like a bird flown into a window pane. “Leaving? For where? Maple Ridge? Detroit?”

  “Neither. I’m going to school.”

  He gaped, surprised and befuddled.

  She tried to explain. “I’ve always wanted to study art. I want to make it my life’s work. I’m going to attend a design school in Maryland.”

  “Your father has agreed to this?”

  “No. I’m fairly certain he and I will never see eye to eye on this. But I’ve decided I cannot let that stop me. I know what’s right for me, and I must pursue it.”

  His voice grew hushed. “When will you go?”

  “I don’t know when, but I know I must. I’m like that live oak.” She pointed out the parlor window to a giant tree swaying faintly in a gentle breeze. “I feel that same stirring, that same quivering, something alive within me. It needs a chance to grow. If I stifle it, I’ll die inside.”

  His brow knitted as he contemplated her words. Then he stepped nearer, catching her about the waist. “Do you feel no fire when we are together?” he asked, his words rough and low.

  A soft breath pulled in through her lips.

  “You do. I know you feel it too. Would you stifle that and let it die?” His fingers tightened. “How can you kill one desire in favor of the other? How can you be sure of which you need more?”

  “The first is far older.” She stiffened against a wild onslaught of emotion. Emotion she had tried to deny, had tried to keep bottled since his departure.

  He pulled her closer so their bodies touched. “But which is the most insistent?”

  She could not think to argue. His eyes were swords, cutting deeply into her resolve.

  His hands left her waist and traveled up her back. “You’re making a mistake, Emily.” His breath fluttered the strands of her hair.

  “I have to go, Thad. I must.” She struggled, but his arms tightened, holding her in place. She could hardly breathe. Hardly think. She stopped fighting.

  His lips were more demanding this time, and she couldn’t stem the longing that rose up inside her like a spring of sweet, clear water. He was right. Artwork wasn’t the onl
y desire burning within her.

  He pulled away, just far enough to look into her eyes. “Then I will wait. This stirring will eventually blow itself out. But I will still be here, fanning the flame that will not be so easily quenched.” One hand worked its way up into her hair and he pressed her head against his shoulder.

  She closed her eyes and relaxed against him. It was probably the only thing he could have said to win her over. He might not understand the urgency she felt, but he had practically given his permission. It was the reassurance she longed for, the support her father could not give. She smiled and wrapped her arms around his waist, breathing in time with the thud of his heart.

  “Emily, do you know where…oh!”

  Emily and Thad jerked apart. Marie appraised them curiously.

  “Hello, Mrs. Preston.” Thad smiled self-consciously. Emily wanted to fade into the wallpaper.

  “Hello, Thaddeus. I didn’t expect to see you here. Don’t you have classes tomorrow?”

  He shifted his weight to his other foot. “Yes, ma’am. I do.”

  One eyebrow cocked slightly higher than the other. “It is a long trip from Charleston. Will you stay for supper?”

  “It’s very kind of you, but I must decline. I have a train to catch.” He threw a quick wink at Emily. “But I did get what I came for.”

  ***

  Lizzie’s baby arrived on a quarrelsome November day that sent alternating rounds of sunshine and thunderstorms to pound the earth. Emily thought the weather rather like a contentious old man who could not decide which pair of trousers to wear. Lizzie paid it little heed, laboring through heat and downpour alike.

  Emily stayed by her side, bathing her face and offering useless words of encouragement while Deena made the necessary preparations. The day seemed interminable. Late in the afternoon, Lizzie bore down and Deena called out, “Dat’s right, chil’. De baby be crownin’.”

  After that followed the most desperate exertions from Lizzie and then a rush of blood and baby. A thin, choking wail wavered through the stifling air of the slave cabin, and Lizzie flopped back on Josephine’s bed in exhaustion.

  Deena wiped the child with a soft rag, smacking it lightly on the bottom a time or two to produce the indignant cries that cleared its airway. Then she handed the tiny, naked newborn to its mother with a smile of pleasure that transformed her ancient face. “Congratulations, chil’. You have a healthy son.”

  Lizzie sobbed and laughed, the two emotions colliding in an awkward dance as she cradled the baby against her chest.

  “Lizzie, he’s beautiful!” Emily gushed, kneeling beside her. Together they exclaimed over the ten miniature toes and ten tiny, curling fingers, the kicking feet, and the button nose. He was perfect, with nutmeg skin a few shades fairer than Lizzie’s and a fuzz of jet black hair. A living doll.

  Emily peered at him closely, but the only clue to the child’s paternity was his lighter skin. It was possible his father had in fact been white, but she couldn’t tell with any degree of certainty. His tiny features and curling hair were distinctly African. She chose not to mar his arrival with speculation.

  Deena watched with keen amusement. “When you two’s done gogglin’, you can give dat baby his firs’ bath, Miss Emily.”

  “Me?” she squeaked.

  “’Less you wanna finish cleanin’ out his mama.”

  “I’ll bathe the baby,” she promptly agreed. “What do I do?”

  Deena chuckled. “You get ’em wet and clean ’em off. But be careful. He squirm like a little sucklin’ pig.”

  A short time later, Lizzie was comfortably installed on Lottie’s bunk, and the baby nursed contentedly. The image was so peaceful and natural that Emily even forgave old man November for the tricks he’d pulled all day. And that’s when Uncle Timothy’s words struck to her heart. At that moment, Emily knew she had not done enough. She had to make absolutely certain that this child was never taken from his mother.

  She had to send Lizzie north.

  The thought left her shaken. Where had it come from? She had no practical knowledge to accomplish something of that magnitude and no desire to lose Lizzie. The idea was crazy! “Have you decided on a name?” she asked to cover any visible indication of her thoughts.

  “Mmm-hmm,” Lizzie hummed with contentment. “Larkin.”

  “Larkin,” Emily repeated. “It sounds an awful lot like Robin.”

  Lizzie just smiled.

  “Would you like me to fetch Ketch before I retire?”

  Lizzie gave a sleepy nod.

  Emily had worried some about Ketch’s true feelings toward the baby, but those fears were laid to rest as she approached Zeke’s cabin. The door blew open and the big slave flung himself onto the porch. “How she be, Miss Emily?” he asked, wringing his hands together with nervous energy.

  She took pity on him immediately. He’d probably been pacing all day. “Lizzie’s fine,” she assured him. “She wants to see you.”

  He leaped to the ground and took off running without another word. Emily climbed the steps and closed the cabin door for him, peeking in on the sleeping child. Ketch was a good father, and she had no doubt he loved Lizzie. Perhaps…

  She rubbed her eyes. What was she thinking? Smuggling one slave to freedom was a ridiculous risk, but four? And two of them children?

  But once the idea dug its way to the surface of her mind, it wouldn’t go away.

  She could not eat dinner that evening. She could not sleep that night. Thoughts rattled through her brain, as urgent and demanding as pennies shaken in a can.

  Freedom meant Lizzie would have all the things Emily wanted for her but could not ensure—books, an education, safety from abuse. She could never be sold. She could marry whenever and whomever she chose. And best of all, she need never fear that little Larkin would someday be swept away forever. The arguments must have already been swimming somewhere in Emily’s mind for them to pop up unannounced. It took no time to convince herself of all of them.

  But aiding runaways was forbidden by law. And getting caught would carry serious consequences. Was she willing to face criminal charges? Vigilante justice? Her father’s wrath? She found all three terrifying—her father most of all. But was breaking a law really wrong when the law itself was so obviously in error? Was it worth the risk?

  She spent an unsettled night mulling and praying, praying and mulling, rereading her uncle’s letter, and mulling some more. The moon passed over the house and shone its brightness into her room, but by dawn Emily knew what she had to do. It wasn’t a sudden decision. She saw now that a long progression of people and events had been preparing her for years: Uncle Isaac, Malachi, Lizzie’s assault, Widow Harris, Sarah Grimké, and Uncle Timothy. She was ready. And she knew who to ask for help.

  She found him in the dining room folding linen napkins in preparation for breakfast. “Zeke, can I see you in the garden, please?”

  “De garden, miss? You want me to send someone fo’ Abraham? Dese ol’ bones ain’t much help in de garden.”

  “No, I’d really like you to come with me.”

  He set aside the linens immediately.

  The sun was just throwing a leg over the horizon as they reached the seclusion of the camellia blooms. She wasted no time. “Zeke, I want to send Lizzie and her baby north.”

  The old man kept his expression neutral and brushed a hand over his chin. “Seem like dat be a mighty serious undertakin’, Miss Emily. Criminal, too. You sho’ you know what you doin’?”

  “I don’t have any idea at all what I’m doing, but I don’t care. They have to go north. And I need your help to do it.”

  His eyes widened innocently. “My help?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You can stop the theatrics, Zeke. I know Uncle Isaac is neck deep in runaways. And he told me you assisted him when he lived in the South. I know you can help me.”

  He contemplated her a long while. “You certain ’bout dis?”

  “Positive. Lizzie is my oldest, dear
est friend.” She blinked away an unexpected rush of tears. “I love her enough to lose her.” Enough to make the sacrifice, to take the risks.

  Of what worth was a gift that cost nothing?

  He finally nodded. “You got a plan?”

  “It isn’t much of one yet, but I’ve been thinking about it all night. If we could get Lizzie and Ketch—”

  “Ketch?” he interrupted.

  “And Robin.”

  “Four.” His eyes narrowed. “Why you helpin’ Ketch?”

  “Because Lizzie loves him. And she’ll need him.”

  “He know ’bout dis?”

  “Neither of them do. I wanted to talk to you first. See if it’s even feasible.”

  After another few seconds, Zeke said, “Tell me yo’ plan.”

  “If we could get them all to Charleston, I could put them on a ship heading north.”

  His eyebrows made bushy gray half circles. “An’ just how you gunna do dat?”

  “I have money. I’ll write to Abigail Malone today and ask her to locate a suitable steamer. She can purchase tickets.”

  “And have you thought about de warships off de coast? De Yankees be in our backyard.”

  She winced. Only two weeks ago, the Union navy had captured nearby Port Royal, midway between Charleston and Savannah, to use as a base of operations. “All the more reason to act quickly. Before they have a chance to get organized.”

  At Zeke’s doubtful look, she blurted out, “I know there’s danger. But Lizzie could never walk all that way. Not with a newborn. They’d get caught for sure. And they can’t go south.” The Seminole Wars had cleared the Everglades of runaway settlements long ago.

  “What about de babies? A black man and woman wid two chillen be too easy to trace. And how you know de captain gunna take ’em aboard?”

  “Because he’ll think she’s white,” she said with a spark of mischief in her smile.

  That prompted a lift of the old man’s eyebrows. “An’ what about Robin?”

  “He’ll be hiding in the trunk. I can get a sedative to help keep him quiet. We’ll have to drill air holes so he doesn’t suffocate before they deliver him to the cabin.”