Chapter 7
“Miss Alexandra, I brought ya nightly tea,” Sarah announced, walking through my bedroom door.
I sat at my vanity, brushing my hair. The bristles became stuck in the lace of my night dress, tearing a few of the delicate seams as I yanked the brush free. Tea and a nights rest, the only comforts needed, and perhaps tomorrow a bath to wash the slave market stench from my skin.
“Thank you, Sarah.”
She set down the tray and held out a folded piece of parchment. “Gotta note for ya, he send a note for ya.” Her excitement seemed barely containable. It almost scared me to be honest. To see such a fevered enthusiasm in Sarah’s wild eyes was foreign.
“Who sent a note?” I asked, grasping the letter from her outstretched hand.
“Mr. Graysden.”
“I beg your pardon?” I stuttered in confusion.
“Heard someone sneakin’ round the kitchen house while I’s cleanin’ after supper, an’ after I yelled, an’ told him I’s callin’ for George, he came out the bushes an’ asked me to give it to ya.”
Though I heard her words, my mind didn’t wrap around them. Why in God’s great earth would he send me a note? Surely, this was a hoax since no logical reason came to mind. Unless he wanted to scold me for my interruption in town or tell me he didn’t require the help of a lady this afternoon. Why would I want to read an obvious criticism?
“Thank you,” I said, dropping the letter on my vanity and walking away.
“Aren’t ya gonna read it?”
“No. I don’t really see any reason to.”
Sarah clutched her chest. “Why on earth not?”
“Why should I when he told me he doesn’t wish to ever see me again and I should wish to never see him again? His words were simply hateful, Sarah. Although, I suppose he’s right.” I paused, and shrugged my shoulders. “Why should I wish to see him again after that? Certainly, no real man would say such a thing to a lady.”
“Well, Miss Alexandra, I don’t blame him.”
“I beg your pardon?” Her words spun in my head and nearly sent me to the floor from passing out.
“How on earths’ he supposed to trust ya? To ya pa, that boy’s nothin’ but a slave. He jus’ ain’t owned by no one yet. How’s he supposed to believe ya don’t think the same?”
“But, I’m not Daddy.”
“He don’t know that.”
Her words twisted my stomach. No rebuttal could stand against the truth in her statement. My reason for forcing him out of my mind the last few days was his reason for acting indifferent, and I had foolishly judged him for it.
“Did ya really think he’d see ya differently?”
“I don’t know what I thought, actually. I wanted to speak to him and wanted him to speak to me.”
“Why?”
Good question.
And, one that couldn’t be answered, or perhaps it could, and I simply did not wish to admit my feelings aloud to anyone. In all honesty, remembering a time he hadn’t crossed my mind was hard. Even if he had been uncouth, the utter desire to see him again overwhelmed me, just as it had every second of the last few days.
“What if Mr. Graysden would’ve acted as ya wanted him to? What if he would’ve talked to ya an’ looked at ya? Would ya be feelin’ any different now lookin’ at that note?”
Why did she have to ask good questions?
“I don’t know how I would have felt,” I said, hanging my head.
Liar.
“Why’re ya so hell bent on denyin’ yaself happiness?”
“I’m not denying myself happiness. I am happy.”
“Well it certainly don’t look that way to me,” Sarah said with narrowed eyes. “Don’t be thinkin’ for one second, I don’t know what I speak of. Bein’ married to Mr. Ludlow’s gonna drain ya of everythin’ ya are.”
“Sarah, that is an audacious assumption.”
“I thought ya wished for more. He gonna do nothin’ but turn ya into ya mama.”
For the first time in my life I saw anger in Sarah’s eyes as she waved her finger in my face, and it was anger directed toward me. Although I desperately wanted to wave off her words like they weren’t understandable or they held little—to—no validity, I couldn’t. Deep down, the notion of the proper Mrs. Alexandra Ludlow haunted me. A year, or five years, into my future, the hollowed version of Mama, which I would become, laughed and waited for me, her prey, to consume me was her ultimate prize.
Being in Thomas’s company gave me a profound feeling of looking into a mirrored image of my parent’s marriage, a scary thought. I searched my memory for a time when my parents conducted themselves as a couple in love. Perhaps in their wild youth they acted differently, but I truly doubted the fact. To be young and in love with untamed passion didn’t seem to suit their personalities. While I believed that their feelings, and not merely money, held them together, I didn’t know what their relationship was. In all honesty, their daily lives scarcely ever entwined with one another’s.
I did not want their marriage, nor did I want their life for mine. Sarah was right.
I wanted more.
More than the same lackluster conversation while attending the same dull parties. More than the same unaffectionate marriage, the same distance as we lived our separate lives. More than living in a manor filled with possessions bought out of the need to boast or to fill a void in my life.
I wanted better.
“Well I say ya go, but who’m I, other than the one person in this world that knows ya the bes’, but whatever.”
With her rant, she left the bedroom, slamming the door, and leaving me alone in the emotional mess of my first argument with her, ever. An argument she annoyingly won. I glanced at the letter laying delicately on my vanity with my name etched on the front in scribbled handwriting.
Why should I read it? Surely, the words inside are pointless and rude. William was no one to me. Certainly not a faceless name, but unknown nonetheless. Not to mention, he just bewildered me, so why should I give him any clout over me? If his words were harsh, I wouldn’t be able to defend myself since I certainly couldn’t respond to him, leaving me then pacing around this room, in annoyance, thinking of all the retorts that I could never make.
Course—knowing his uncivilized behavior, surely he’s just an uneducated foolish boy. Perhaps seeing, with my own eyes, his lack of eloquent prose and chicken scratch handwriting would be hilarious. Even if my taunts would fall upon deaf ears, surely, I could find joy in mocking him. Exhaling deeply, I grabbed and opened the ivory paper envelope.
Dear Miss Monroe,
Would you do me the honor of meeting me down at the gates to your pathway at midnight? I’ll be waiting for you there.
Sincerely,
William
I read the words over and over again until they were practically memorized. Why on earth does he want to meet with me? I walked slowly to the window, my knees weak from shock, and opened a tapestry to gaze down the pathway toward the wrought iron gates. Although the trees hindered my view, the gates stood in the distance waiting for me.
The few hours to midnight ticked by on my bedside clock, and after pacing for most of them, surely I’d worn a path in the floor. I parked my rump on my bed, a sad, pathetic heap of indecision and confusion.
My journal lay on the table next to the clock, piquing my curiosity, and I flipped the pages through my fingers, remembering the words Sarah told me every year when she gave me another journal for my birthday. “Ya write ya life as if it was a story, child. It’ll bring ya comfort in time of need an’ joy in time of reflection.”
Years and years of secrets, hopes and dreams were written in between the worn covers of several books secretly living in my chest at the foot of my bed. All tied with satin ribbons,
the tattered remains of years long since passed. The secrets of a young girl, which changed over the years from toys at Christmas, to the affections of a young man at a party when I was thirteen, to the daily plight with Mama. Clearly, nothing ever written about held so much turmoil as the situation I faced now.
Oh how lucky I had been in my youth.
I opened my journal to the day at the O’Brien’s store. My eyes traced my words, written with both excitement and utter confusion over the memories. Confusion that still plagued me tonight, so much so, that even my bedroom, my safe haven, couldn’t scare my apprehension away. I remembered walking through the store, imagining the different chance meetings between William and me, his warm arms as he wrapped me in them, and his passionate kiss, a kiss that when imagined still sends chills down my spine.
Denying my interest in Mr. William Graysden would be foolish. Though he lacked charm, he had nonetheless intrigued me, and deep down I did desire to meet him.
Did I just admit I wanted to meet him?
I tapped my fingers against my lips, laughing at myself. Although, I didn’t see any cause why I should—wanting to certainly wasn’t a good enough motive in my mind. Or was it? Was my desire only laughable because I thought it was? Would any other person seize the opportunity rather than shy away from it, as I was?
No, desiring to see him was foolish.
Especially when he, himself, said he didn’t wish to see me again, why should I wish to see him? Never have I been the girl who goes running off at the beckon call of a man and I wouldn’t tonight either. Even if he smiled at me in town this afternoon, his smile didn’t negate his harsh words a few days ago.
I threw the journal down on the table, nearly knocking over the vase of flowers Thomas had given me that very same day and a single petal fell to the ground. I picked it up, rolling it through my fingers before I placed it on the wood table. Why would a practically betrothed woman run off to meet a stranger in the middle of the night, anyway? I suppose the answer was simple: she wouldn’t. Any young lady wouldn’t, and yet knowing this, why was I considering it?
And what of the slaves?
Hundreds of lives depended on me. Their safety rested in my hands, and marrying Thomas would secure my ability to save them. Not that I would marry William, such was a foolish notion to compare, but to give up on my quest, to walk away from Peter and Clive, the mission, and the people was not my desire.
I opened William’s letter again, reading the words one last time. The walls closed in around me and my chest tightened with every breath as I thought about leaving him waiting alone in the darkness, wondering why I didn’t meet him. Remembering his smile and his face, the thought of causing him pain and confusion tightened my chest more.
No, Alexandra. You cannot meet him. You have to forget about him.
The clock chimed midnight. My heart pounded.
Or can I?
Without any thought, I marched to the door, and paused with my hand clutching the doorknob. I faced two choices, to meet William or not to meet him, to follow a forbidden path or to follow a path my parents had chosen, to save slaves or to risk their lives in my selfishness.
Please, please, show me a sign. Tell me if meeting William is the right choice and right thing for me to do.
A horse neighed in the distance, and the sound rescinded every no, don’t meet him, and forget about him that ran through my mind. I ran downstairs, not caring if anyone heard or saw me. Nothing would keep me from meeting him tonight, nothing.
Arriving at the gates, the hair on the back of my neck stood up and a chill ran down my spine. For a second, a tiny voice in my head screamed at me, telling me this was imprudent, and asking why, at this hour of the night, I was meeting a stranger.
What am I thinking?
Sarah was wrong. The choice wasn’t mine—it never was, nor would ever be. This was thoughtless and wrong, and I was a horrible person for standing in this very spot, in this very moment.
I stepped backwards a few steps, retreating away from the gate and a twig broke under my weight.
“Miss Monroe, are you there?”
Drat. I couldn’t leave now. I would have to face him.
“Yes,” I replied softly.
Expecting to see William, I was shocked when I tiptoed around the gate, lifted my lantern, and met the big brown eyes of a stunning, blood-red bay and white, paint horse. Moonlight glistened off his smooth coat as the horse stood there, staring at me with a calmness in his eyes. It was as if he was speaking to me, telling me I was safe.
“Animals can look into your soul and see who you truly are,” William said, walking around from behind the horse. He was even more handsome than I remembered. Although he was burned into my memory, each time felt as if I was seeing him for the first time. Why did he have to be so incredibly handsome?
“Your horse is beautiful,” I said, trying to distract myself.
“His name is Essiyetv. He is a good boy, still a bit young but has a good head.”
“Does his name have a meaning?”
“It means to paint one.”
“As in to paint the horse?”
He laughed. “As in he is painted.”
We both fell silent, and William glanced around from the horse, to the moon, and to the trees, repeating the cycle several times without ever looking at me. Why am I standing here being ignored yet again? My hope hadn’t been to stand in the cold night air with him looking at everything around us except for me. I wouldn’t have left my room had I known this was his agenda.
“How is the boy?” he finally asked. “The boy you bought from Mr. Cole.”
“Oh, you mean, Jackson,” I said, smiling. “He is doing well. He cried for several hours after we arrived home, but Maggie comforted him and fed him, and he calmed down.”
“My father thought you were crazy, barging in on the conversation the way you did,” he laughed.
I did too.
Once again, we fell silent, the awkwardness was maddening, and I didn’t know how much longer I could handle it. William kicked at a rock and watched it roll several inches. His indifference yet again in my presence became utterly annoying.
“Mr. Graysden, why did you leave your note?” I finally asked, oozing my irritation.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You send a note asking to meet me, and yet, here we stand in silence.”
“Um—” He glanced around, ran his fingers through his hair, and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”
Apparently, charm wasn’t the only attribute he lacked. “Mr. Graysden, I don’t want to simply stand here in silence all night. I’m chilled and quite tired. Did you wish to discuss a certain matter, or did you have a purpose for this meeting?”
“I suppose I don’t,” he barked, climbing onto his horse.
I wrapped my arms around my waist, fidgeting with anxiety.
Stop him, Alexandra, stop him.
Without a good-bye, without a nodding glance, William and the horse trotted off into the darkness leaving me alone, frozen in shock, and repulsed at my own self. As the bouncing glow from his lantern faded into the trees and disappeared, my knees hit the dirt.
What have I done?
I threw my lantern into the middle of the road, the light extinguished as the lantern shattered into several pieces. My ambition had been to convey my annoyance, not cause him to leave. I had wanted to see William, wanted to speak to him, and yet when faced with my chance, I let it slip through my fingers.
I closed my eyes, praying for this moment to be a dream, a horrible dream from which I could awaken and forget it ever happened. Surely, this couldn’t be another moment for my soul to torture itself, another act by someone unknown. Even if I could forgive myself for the other moments, this one was unforgivable. L
oathing my own self did not seem a sufficient punishment.
Faint echoes of horse hooves pounded the ground, and the sound drawing nearer opened my eyes. A soft glowing light bounced toward me while the sound of hooves became heavier, vibrating the ground under my knees. I rose to my feet as Essiyetv crossed the road. William climbed off before the horse came to a stop, and marched toward me.
Within seconds, his strong hands cupped my face, and before I could react, he kissed me. His lips were lightening against mine, and the earth became silent and motionless around us. The sincerity and passion made me desire him more. Overcome with emotions, one thought was clear, here this very moment, together, him holding me, kissing me, was something I never wanted to give up.
“Alexandra, I think about you every day,” His lungs heaved like he had been running. “I want to speak to you, want to know you. I want to be here with you, and that is why I left my note.”
We both stood, staring at one another in silence. Even if I could find my voice, words evaded me. Any response was laughable.
“Do you ever think of me?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t think of you.”
“Why are you here? Why did you meet me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to be here…with me right now?”
“I don’t know.”
He smacked his hand against his forehead in disbelief and began to pace. “Why did you wait for me when I left? Did you expect me to return?”
“I didn’t wait,” I defended. “I was in shock of—”
“Of my deportment,” he interrupted.
“No, William, I was in shock of my own.”
He stared at me for a few seconds, confused. “Alexandra, you are a very unpredictable Yankee,” he laughed.
“I beg your pardon?” I retorted.
The Woman on the Painted Horse Page 7