by Gen LaGreca
Slowly, Solo looked up and returned his smile. “Okay.” The moment had passed.
He removed the book from his shirt.
“I want you to go, Jerome.” Her voice was steady now, and it held hope. “I want you to fly north like the hummingbirds. Fly north and spend your summer there as they do.” Her eyes glided out to the fields and to the mystery and promise beyond them. “Think of it, Jerome!” Her glance returned to the chef she had crowned with a toque. “You’ll get to make your own recipes for your own life!” The longing in her voice was palpable.
In a display she had up to then reserved only for the horses, she raised her arms and placed them around Jerome’s neck. With the fondness of siblings, they embraced.
Then Jerome turned to Tom.
The inventor wondered if there were something he could do to help. Should he offer Jerome a weapon? But if the steamship captain discovered the unthinkable—a slave with a gun—would he renege on the deal? Tom pondered the matter. Could he offer Jerome something more powerful than a weapon? Could he offer a kind of mental weapon to bolster the man’s first steps to freedom?
“Jerome, you plunged into the plantation cooking with real vigor. And you mastered it with real skill. You know what that means?”
“What, sir?”
“It means you have a talent and you made a choice to pursue it. It means you found a line of work that interests you and makes you happy. A lot of free people never find that, but you did.”
Jerome listened, attentive to every word.
“And you invented a way to prompt the slaves to work better for my benefit and theirs—and, I might add, for your benefit too, as their agent.” Jerome smiled. “And you organized the fire brigade that saved the house tonight. You know what that means?”
“What, sir?”
“It means you’re resourceful, and you’re a good leader of people.”
Jerome nodded thoughtfully, as if he were realizing for the first time things about himself that neither he nor anyone else—except the speaker—had ever observed.
“And you created a new recipe, a brand-new confection that everybody wants, and you found a way to sell it and make money from it. Do you know what that means?”
“What, sir?”
“It means you’re an innovator and a businessman.”
Jerome seemed to marvel at the notion. “I reckon it does.”
“Do you know what all of that means?”
“What, sir?”
“It means that you belong to the new age, Jerome. And it belongs to you.”
Jerome swallowed hard, as if ingesting the words like a tonic to fortify him for the journey ahead.
He reached into his pocket and gave his set of keys to Tom, who put them in his pocket.
The men looked at each other in a silent salute. The blue eyes and brown ones, so different in color, seemed to share a common vision. Tom held out his hand. Jerome didn’t look surprised at the gesture that was rare between masters and slaves. Jerome’s hand met Tom’s in a viselike grip, with all the feeling the two men held for each other contained in it. Then Tom pulled him closer. With the lingering affection of two brothers parting, they embraced.
Then Jerome picked up his belongings, beamed a final, confident smile at Tom and Solo, and walked away, a man in pursuit of a deed—to a shop and to a life.
CHAPTER 26
The night’s emergency had distorted Tom’s sense of time. Standing in front of his family home, with lanterns spread like embers among the charred debris, he glanced at his pocket watch. On what had already been the longest night of his life, he was surprised to realize that it was only three in the morning, and daybreak was still a few hours away. It also seemed as if days had passed since Sheriff Duran’s meeting at the Crossroads, yet it had occurred only twelve hours earlier.
On the other hand, the past three months had seemed like one prolonged night of anguish. It was that long ago that his invention had been stolen, yet he felt its loss as acutely as if it were yesterday.
His mind paused on the invention to which all of his thoughts eventually led. It could be only a day or two more before he would learn something about its whereabouts from Ladybug, the slave from the Crossroads, if Duran could find her in Baton Rouge, and if she weren’t . . . silenced . . . before she had a chance to talk.
Tom was impatient to report the fire so that the sheriff could send deputies out to find Markham without delay. Since Duran would surely wait until morning to begin what was a long trip, Tom thought, he could get a note to the lawman before he left for Baton Rouge. That way the search for the man who almost killed Solo could begin in the sheriff’s absence.
Tom walked behind the big house and into the kitchen to look for writing materials that Jerome kept there to do his class exercises. He found them and composed a note to the sheriff reporting Markham’s arson. Then he sent a trusted servant to town to deliver it.
As he walked back to the front of the house, he noticed that the human voices dominating that frantic night had now vanished, returning the outdoors to the sounds of the nocturnal critters. Most of the slaves had gone back to bed.
He saw the most precious item saved from the fire still at the scene. Solo was gathering the rescued books into a hand-pulled wagon to take into a cabin for safekeeping.
He also saw the indomitable Nick clearing debris from the gallery himself after sending the field hands back to their cabins to rest before the day’s work. As he was about to tell Nick to go to bed, Tom spotted a carriage coming up the road.
“Mr. Tom!” The driver stopped the carriage in front of him.
“Hello, Lance.” Tom recognized Charlotte Barnwell’s driver from Ruby Manor.
“Miz Charlotte and Miz Rachel sen’ me.” The man stared agape at the burned house. “Oh, Lord in paradise!” he said, shaken by the sight.
“Go on, Lance.”
“The ladies, they sees smoke a-comin’ from yer direction. They smells smoke. They afeared there’s fire here, sir. They wonderin’ if you okay. They say fer you to come back wid me, sir, if you got fire here, and bring ’long anybody hurt an’ needin’ Nurse Bina.”
Ruby Manor, a larger plantation, had a cottage that served as a sick house, where a doctor-trained slave treated common ailments of the Barnwells and their slaves.
“The missus, she given me this fer you.” Lance reached into his vest pocket and produced a note.
The inventor unfolded the paper and moved toward a lantern to read it.
Dear Tom,
Rachel and I fear this note will find you in peril. We saw smoke filling the sky from the direction of Indigo Springs, and we suspect you’ve suffered a fire. If you or any of your slaves have been injured, please come here so that our nurse can minister to all of you.
I was taken aback by the threatening words uttered to me and you this past afternoon, and I greatly fear that the man who pronounced them is the culprit behind the fire. I worry that this madman is loose and might set his sights next on Ruby Manor to exact his wild revenge.
Tom, please come, so you can tell us what happened. And if my suspicions prove true, we need you to protect us from that vile man. Please stay with us, at least through this frightful night. Rachel implores you, as do I.
God willing, you have escaped harm.
The letter was signed by Charlotte Barnwell. Tom thought he should alert her and Rachel to Markham’s culpability, just in case the madman, in the throes of alcohol, decided to pay a visit to Ruby Manor and include Charlotte in his vengeance, as she feared. If he had any sense, Tom figured, the man would be racing out of town after his crime, but it was precisely sound judgment that he lacked, so his potential to cause more harm couldn’t be ruled out. Tom relished the thought of being there to exact justice if Markham did ride in to Ruby Manor that night. His fists clenched as a cauldron of anger boiled inside him for the man who nearly killed . . .
He looked at Solo. The burns and bruises on her arms, as well as his own ski
n injuries, needed careful cleaning and bandaging. Maybe Bina had a salve or emollient to soothe their burns as well.
He glanced at the house. It reeked of smoke and was uninhabitable. He needed to prevail on Charlotte that night, just as she needed to prevail on him.
While the carriage driver waited for a reply, Tom told Nick about the letter.
“You can do nothing inside till she cools,” Nick said of the big house. “If something come up, I send for you.” Ruby Manor was only a mile away. “Go. I watch everything.”
The hardworking German with the direct gaze and decisive manner inspired confidence. Tom told him of Jerome’s signed pass to work on the steamship. That way his overseer, the only other free person on the plantation, wouldn’t unwittingly report Jerome as a runaway. Then he gave Jerome’s keys to Nick to hold while he went to Ruby Manor.
* * * * *
“There are neighbors close by who have a nurse that can treat your burns, and I need to warn them of a mutual enemy we have who set the fire,” Tom explained to Solo. “Besides, you wouldn’t mind getting cleaned up and resting a little, now, would you?” She looked uneasy. “We’ll come back first thing in the morning.”
Solo went along in the carriage reluctantly. Unlike the other slaves, she showed no inclination to go to town, visit other plantations, or otherwise venture outside of Indigo Springs. Through her books, she traveled the world, but she seemed to want nothing to do with the local town or its people. She was an outcast, he thought, an educated woman, a voracious reader, and a talented teacher who was trapped in the dying age. If she harbored a hostility toward the society that held her captive, could he blame her? He couldn’t predict her reactions. He knew only that he didn’t want to provoke her . . . feral . . . side, which he had sampled in their first encounters. He told her nothing about the Barnwells and didn’t intend to stay beyond the morning.
* * * * *
White columns and scattered lanterns shone in the darkness as the carriage trotted toward the Olympian home that Wiley Barnwell had built twenty years earlier for his wife. Also visible in the night were countless small reddish puffs, swaying in the breeze; come morning, they would appear in their full red bloom as the trademark roses that encircled Ruby Manor, completing the extravagant gift of a loving husband to his young bride.
Charlotte Barnwell appeared at the entrance to greet the carriage. With her red hair loose and tumbling, she still possessed the youthful beauty of Wiley’s bride. Rachel followed her, with the same long red hair and trim form. In the night, the two women in pastel dressing gowns looked like sisters.
As the carriage pulled up to the house and the two passengers came into the light, the women gasped.
“Is that you, Tom?” Rachel called. “My God! You look burnt to a cinder.” She turned to a servant who had accompanied her outside. “Roderick, fetch Bina.”
Tom jumped down from the carriage and helped Solo out. The two young women stared at each other. Rachel looked as pristine as a fairy-tale princess in her pink silk gown with a V neck exposing the delicate lace frill of a nightgown beneath. Solo, in her smoke-covered slave’s frock, with torn sleeves and unkempt hair that had been exposed to fire, dirt, and mud, resembled a vagabond. Rachel looked at her aghast. Solo responded with a look of suspicion, as if she too were making a less-than-favorable appraisal.
Tom bowed his head to the Barnwells in greeting. “Ladies, as you surmised, there indeed was a fire tonight at my house. The two of us were caught in it, and we would be much obliged to rest here and have a chance to clean up and change clothes.”
Bina, a corpulent slave in her forties with a motherly manner, arrived from the sick house. Her steps quickened at the sight of the bedraggled arrivals, suggesting she took her job as a healer seriously. While Tom spoke to his two hostesses, Bina smiled kindly at Solo and drew her aside to examined her burns by a lantern’s light.
“Are you all right, Tom?” Charlotte inquired.
“Yes.”
“You read my note?”
“I did.”
“And?” Charlotte’s manner was cordial but cool as if Tom’s stinging words to her and the others the preceding afternoon were lingering unpleasantly in her mind.
“I’m sorry to say your suspicions were correct.”
“It was him!”
“I saw him; he was drunk and galloping away from my house just after the fire started.”
“My God! I knew I shouldn’t have listened to you! I didn’t want to fire him—you did!” Charlotte said accusingly. “I hope you shot him!”
“I’m afraid he got away, but I reported him to the sheriff.”
“What if he comes here, Tom Edmunton?” Rachel’s question sounded like a scolding. “What are we to do then?”
“He’s probably in hiding and passed out from drink by now.”
“Maybe not. If he’s drunk, who knows what he’ll do?” Charlotte’s face paled with worry.
“Well, I’m glad that you at least had the consideration to come here to protect us tonight.” Rachel seemed to have forgotten about Tom’s and his companion’s injuries. “We’ll post servants outside to warn us if anyone rides up.” She turned to Charlotte. “Will that make you feel better, Mama?”
“Nothing will make me feel better until that madman is caught . . . and until we have some peace from our recent horrors.” She looked pointedly at Tom.
“In the meantime, this woman needs care.” Tom pointed to Solo.
Rachel suddenly remembered the vagabond. “Oh. Bina, come here.”
The nurse joined the group, along with Solo. “Be sure to take care of her burns. And Mr. Edmunton’s too.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Bina.
“Tom, you can stay in Papa’s room,” Rachel continued. She looked at her mother, who nodded her approval; then she turned to the nurse. “Bina, put the girl up in the sick house.”
“Wait,” said Tom. “You can’t do that.”
“What do you mean?” asked Rachel.
“There could be sick people inside.”
“Of course there are sick people. That’s why it’s called a sick house.”
“You could have people in there with a fever, a contagion of some kind.”
“There’s only one case of fever, and it’s only suspected. We’re watching it—”
“Absolutely not!” said Tom, alarmed.
“How very rude of you to order me around at my own house!” Rachel remarked.
“Either she stays here”—he pointed to the big house—“or we both leave now.”
Rachel’s eyes darted suspiciously from Tom to Solo. “What is she to you, anyway?”
He stared irritably at her. With his nerves worn thin from the wickedness of Markham’s deed and his fierce battle with the blaze, he had lost all urge to be pleasant.
“Tom Edmunton, what’s that slave to you?” Rachel demanded.
“Frankly, it’s none of your business.” He took Solo’s arm and guided her back to the carriage. “Lance, take us back.”
“Tom, really now!” Rachel rushed up to him. The voluminous folds of her dressing gown rubbed against his dirty clothing. Her hands covered a shirt that had been white but was now as dark gray as his tattered vest. Her eyes looked up at him alluringly, as from a time past. “You can’t leave us, Tom! Why, whatever would we do if that horrible man came here?”
“Call Nash.” He pushed loose of her.
Like a storm-scuffed cat whose body was disheveled, Solo observed the two of them with piercing eyes and drew her own conclusions.
“I declare!” said Charlotte. “Your daddy, the colonel, must be twistin’ in his grave with the outrageous things you say, and with the disrespectful way you talk and try to bully us around!”
Tom looked at the two of them with contempt. Then he turned to Solo. “Let’s go.” He was ready to assist her into the carriage when Rachel again entreated him.
“All right! All right, have it your way. I won’t argue with your
crazy notions about . . . things.” She sneered at Solo, then fixed a smile to her face and a lighter tone to her voice. “Bina, take the girl to my wardrobe room.” She turned to the male servant. “Roderick, take Mr. Edmunton to my father’s room. You and Bina are to see to it that they get lots of soap and water for washing . . . scrubbing, I should say.” She looked disdainfully at the two people who had barely escaped a scorching death. “And get them fresh clothing.”
She turned to Bina. “She’s not to touch anything in my wardrobe room. Give her a blanket to sleep on the floor.” To Solo she added, her face pleasant but her eyes resentful: “Is that understood?”
Solo didn’t reply. Tom recognized the feral look gripping her features, the same look she had displayed on their first encounter, right before she had socked him.
He quickly whisked her off with Bina toward the house. “Go. I’ll check on you later,” he whispered reassuringly.
“And Bina,” Rachel called after them, “don’t let her traipse through the house like a wounded dog. Take her up the back stairs.”
Solo looked daggers at her.
Rachel turned to the coachman. “Lance, you’re to stay out here all night and guard the front entrance. Get Rex to watch the back. If anyone comes up to the house, wake us fast!”
Then she looked at the man who was so difficult to manage. She brushed her gown and hands to shake off the soot from her contact with him, as if ridding herself of his feel.
“There, now, that should take care of everything.” She smiled.
Her feigned cheerfulness reminded Tom of her acting roles on the Philadelphia stage at a time that had become distorted in his mind, for it seemed like centuries ago.
* * * * *
Just before daybreak, the second-floor hallway was dark and the Barnwell household was finally asleep. Behind one of the doors, Tom stood before the mirrored panels of an armoire, looking at himself. His tanned face and blond hair had been restored to their proper coloring. He wore the bulky shirt, pants, and vest of the man who had betrayed him, garments that ill fit his body and his sentiments. Nevertheless, he was glad to be cleaned up and wearing fresh clothes, with his burns washed and bandaged. Now that his physical condition was improved, his attention turned to the room of the man who had been the distinguished leader of the town.