by C. K. Brooke
First wife. The words clanged together painfully in her mind like two iron pots. It would give Em a headache. She didn’t want to be somebody’s second wife. Why, oh, why couldn’t they have promised her to someone young, whole, and kind? Someone whose slaves weren’t forced to carry his children? A young man who would be tender, not an old monster?
If only she could get away—far away. She longed to be anywhere but there, where naught but doom loomed on her horizon.
“Emeline?”
Oh, Lord, not her sister. Not now. Em stiffened against the barn wall, staring back at the cows that observed her. She didn’t want to speak to Pru. Perfect, happy Pru with her perfect, happy marriage to a thoroughly acceptable, even if a bit priggish, spouse.
“Oh, there you are.” Prudence exhaled with relief, discovering her sister. “You had me worried.”
Em willed her tears to keep at bay. “You knew.” Her voice trembled. It was an accusation.
Prudence spoke carefully. “I knew Mama and Papa had selected a husband for you. I didn’t know who.”
Em saw nothing past her devastation. The cows blinked placidly at her. “I cannot marry Mr. Grady.”
“Why not?” Pru took a step forward. “He’s wealthy. You’ll live better than anyone on the island. Even me.” Her tone was cautiously gentle, as though trying to approach an ill-tempered alley cat. “I know he’s a bit farther along in years than you might fancy, but he can give you a bountiful life. You’ll have plenty of food and nice things to wear, and that big, beautiful house to live in. It’s the best life Mama and Papa could think to give you. You’ll make out better than any of—”
“I don’t care.” Em’s voice was pierced with emotion.
“But what’s the matter, dear?”
“He’s a brute.” Her eyes stung. “He fondles his slaves!”
Even in the darkness of the barn, Em could see her sister flush. “Honestly, Em. I’m sure that’s just a rumor. And a rather inappropriate—”
“It’s not a rumor,” Em attested. “I heard it myself, today on the plantation.” She closed her eyes and, though reluctant, relayed what she’d seen and overheard that morning.
“Slaves can talk rubbish,” said Pru when she had finished, although she didn’t sound too sure of herself. “It was only meaningless slander.”
“She was with child, Prudence,” insisted Emeline. “I saw her. With my own eyes!”
“But you’ve no way of knowing whether Mr. Grady was responsible,” Pru pointed out. “The girl could have been lying to her mother.”
“Why would she make it up when it could cost her life?” demanded Em. “No, I cannot marry a man who would do such a thing.”
Prudence lowered her eyes. “Lots of men do that to their slaves, Emeline.”
“That doesn’t make it right. And anyway, your husband doesn’t.” Em was unable to quell the acid in her voice.
Pru would not look at her anymore. “We ought to return to the table,” she said, in something of a monotone. “Poor Mama toiled over supper all day. She wants you to taste the bread she baked specially for your news.”
“My news,” Em spat, storming out of the barn.
Though it was the last place she wanted to return—indeed, she burned for nothing more than to flee the farm, and to never stop running—she had no choice but to reenter the house, followed by her sister. The others remained in their chairs as she’d left them, now with honey-smeared slabs of bread on their china dishes. The men were carrying on about government and taxes as though nothing had happened.
Em didn’t miss her mother’s reproachful glare as she resumed her seat. A slice of bread had been set at her place, but she wouldn’t touch it. Her stomach roiled as though she might vomit. She feared she would never regain an appetite again.
“Emeline,” her father addressed her, once Mr. Bonworthe had finished speaking, “we meant to mention your engagement celebration on the morrow.”
Her throat was dry. “On the morrow,” she repeated blankly.
“At Mr. Grady’s estate,” added her mother, rather curtly. “He’s invited everyone in town. It was to be a surprise for you.”
As if things could get any worse. Em shoved her plate aside so she wouldn’t have to look at the revolting glob of honey. “Well, I certainly am surprised,” she said, folding her arms.
Her mother forced a cheery air for her guests’ benefit, but couldn’t hide the disappointment in her eyes. “Commander Redding,” she addressed the stranger. Em wished they would all just leave. “Please, you are welcome to attend the festivities tomorrow.”
Redding took an easy sip from his cup before answering. How nice it must be, to be a man in control of one’s own future, Em thought bitterly. “My sincerest apologies, Madame, but I’ll have to miss it, for I set sail this evening.”
“So soon?” lamented Mrs. Winthrop.
“Business?” asked Em’s father knowingly.
“Very important business, I’m afraid.” The commander offered them a casual smile, but only managed to look tired. Em’s eyes lingered upon that tired smile, the faint lines framing his mouth, as something occurred to her.
“I suppose the sea never sleeps,” Mr. Bonworthe nodded at his friend, “nor does its call.”
Commander Redding responded, and Prudence piped in, but Em wasn’t listening anymore. She was deaf to their laughter and small talk. She lowered her gaze so no one would catch the gleam of inspiration in her eyes. But the commander had given her something to consider. Something dangerous, scandalous, and certainly improper.
But not impossible.
Jackey looked wistfully at her honeyed bread, for he’d already eaten his own slice. Em passed her plate to him. A single, fragile ray of hope was illuminated before her. The impulse to flee her fate still consumed her.
But now, she knew a way she might do it.
Chapter 3
As soon as her sister and the guests had gone, Em retired up the stairs to her cot early. She feigned sleep when Jackey entered, listening as he folded down his blankets and climbed into his cot on the opposite end of the room. Hardly any time had passed before his breaths became steady and even.
Em reopened her eyes and stared across at the window. Her brother would be all right without her, wouldn’t he? He was lucky enough to be a boy, after all, who would grow into a man. No one would marry him off to somebody he didn’t want, couldn’t bear.
She counted the minutes, wondering when it would be safe to rise. She couldn’t be too careful—this was her only chance. She was considering sitting upright when, unexpectedly, a glow of candlelight framed the outside of the door. Em lay flat as someone pushed open the door.
It was her mother, carrying a candle and saucer. She wore her plainest, most shapeless sleeping gown, her head covered in a nightcap. “Emeline?” she whispered, squinting into the room.
Em considered feigning sleep for her too, but resentment frothed within her. She wanted an explanation. “Yes?” she grumbled under her breath, mindful of her sleeping brother.
Her mother left the door ajar behind her. Em’s cot creaked as Mrs. Winthrop lowered herself onto the edge. Candlelight danced across her aging features, adding depth to the creases on her face. She looked as old as Em had ever seen her.
The woman imbibed a deep breath. “I know you’re cross with me. I feared you might be.”
Em held her silence.
“I am not ignorant. A girl like you would’ve hoped for a younger man, I know. But at your age, truly, there’s little you understand of the world.”
And at your age, there’s little you understand of me, Em wanted to quip, but refrained. She had already shown her parents enough disrespect for one day. Not to mention, she would have the final word…once they had gone to sleep.
“Life is difficult when you haven’t the means to live well.” Her mother sounded weary. “You’ve the energy now, in your youth, to work as you do. But what about when you’re old, like me? As Mr. Grady’s
wife, you won’t have to toil. He has money, plenty of slaves. You are the envy of every sensible woman in Jamestown. You’ll never want for anything, will never again have to do your own laundry or mending or soap-making…”
“I enjoy soap-making,” Em mumbled, making her mother sigh. In that sigh, Em heard a lifetime of disappointment and exhaustion, and the tumult, losses, and lack their family had suffered in the war’s aftermath. Though she detested herself for it, she pitied her mother in that moment. Mrs. Winthrop was only trying to give her daughter an easier life. Only, she didn’t realize how wrongly she was going about it.
Em considered telling her about the slave, Beatrice. But she suspected her mother would have the same reaction as Prudence. Denial, dismissal, and, as a last resort, resignation. She closed her eyes, the old negro’s words echoing dismally in her memory: “An’ we all know what Mr. Grady gone done to the last slave this happen to. You ain’t gonna drown in no river.”
She shivered. It wasn’t even the first time something like this had happened. And Grady hadn’t stopped with assault, but had gone on to commit murder.
A murderer. Her husband-to-be.
Not, thought Em, gritting her teeth. He was never to be her husband. She would see to it.
“Well. Goodnight, Emeline,” said her mother decidedly, rising to her stocky feet.
Em wanted to respond, realizing this would be her only opportunity to say farewell. But Mrs. Winthrop didn’t wait for her daughter’s answer. She departed the room, taking her candlelight with her.
Em waited for a while after that. When she heard no more movement downstairs, and was certain her parents had taken to their bed, she finally rose. By the moonlight through her window, she went soundlessly to the wardrobe and changed into her day clothes and Brunswick. Her fingers shook as she slid her arms through the long sleeves and buttoned the outer bodice. She couldn’t believe her gall. Yet she was desperate. She didn’t know where she would end up, but anyplace was better than Mr. Grady’s plantation as his unwilling bride.
When she’d finished dressing, she unfolded her favorite scarf upon her cot, and set within it a change of clothes, her comb, her purse with the few coins she’d saved, and some fresh bars of the lavender soap they had made that day, just because. They weren’t fully hardened yet, but would do. She wanted them with her, wherever she was going. The smell, the texture would bring her comfort.
Her eyes gave the room a final sweep. She spotted a pear atop her brother’s nightstand and snatched it. She added it to the pile, knowing the boy could pick more fruit from the tree outside. But where she was headed, there would be no trees.
There were more items she wished to include, but she had to pack lightly. Besides, the delicate scarf could only hold so much weight. Heart thumping, Em lifted the ends of the scarf and tied them together. She could still hear Jackey’s light snores amidst her activity. She prayed she wouldn’t wake him when she opened the window.
She held her breath, heaving the glass upward. A cool breeze trickled into the room. Already, she felt sorry she would be unable to shut it after the climb down. Hopefully her brother would have the sense to close it if he caught a chill.
Em swung her bundle from side to side, ensuring that she’d tied it tightly enough. Testing her luck, she tossed it out the open window. It landed on the ground below, thankfully none of its contents spilling out.
She slipped into her worn leather shoes and scratched her neck. The Brunswick’s high lace collar itched her. At last, she secured her hood overhead and angled her leg out the window. She was glad for the uneven panels of wood layering down the side of the house, giving her feet purchase as she struggled to climb down. With relief, she eventually met the solid ground.
Cricket song dominated the air. Em peered across the dark farm to the road. It was already late. There would be no time to walk all the way to the harbor. And there was no guaranteeing the ship she intended to catch would still be there when she arrived. It might have already gone.
But there would be other ships. And she had to reach one, immediately.
The young woman took up her scarf and headed to the stables. Liberty, the Winthrops’ tawny mare, was reined but not saddled. Em hurried to prepare her and fastened her bundle to the saddle. “’Atta girl,” she whispered, guiding the sleepy horse from its stall. From the footstool, she mounted the creature, rested her legs to one side, and gave the reins a confident shake.
The horse ambled leisurely out of the barn.
“Oh.” Em frowned. “But we’ve got to move faster than that, Lib.” She knocked her heels against the horse’s side, and Liberty obediently commenced into a canter. Em leaned forward, jiggling the reins some more.
For once, she was thrilled that Jackey had neglected to close the front gate. They rode out and onto the road, where Em wasted no time urging the horse to a gallop. She ducked her hooded head against the current of wind in her face. Liberty carried her east the full two-and-a-half miles, until Em could see myriad oil lanterns dotting the perimeter of the riverside, and the shadows of harbored ships against the ripe moonlight.
She slowed the mare just before they reached the thick of the harbor. Though it was late, men occupied the quay, readying ships for the morning and completing end-of-day transactions. Their voices carried, their silhouettes eerie in the lantern light.
Em swallowed, knowing that the moment she descended the horse, she was a maiden alone at a wharf full of sailors. Perhaps she hadn’t thought this through. It was only that Commander Redding had given her the idea of ships, of the harbor, and of sailing off—
Commander Redding! Emeline nearly slipped from the saddle. Gripping the knob, she steadied herself. But she could have sworn she saw a shadow drift past, tall and uniformed…with an unmistakable head of curls.
Em backed the horse into the mouth of an alley, behind a fishery that was closed for the evening. She dismounted, her soles meeting the stone ground with a slap. Liberty stood patiently as Em loosened her bundle from the saddle and slung it over her shoulder.
“Get home, now.” She steered the creature around and gave her a smart pat on the rump. The horse trotted dutifully down the road. She knew her way back. And if she got lost, the neighbors would return her.
Now alone, Em turned to face the gloom of the quay. A band of workers loaded cargo onto a frigate, grunting with their efforts and calling across to each other in words Em couldn’t distinguish. And that was when she was certain she saw it again, a mop of loose locks topping the head of a clean, stiff-jacketed figure. He strode purposefully up the moonlit port, speaking to no one as he passed.
Keeping at a discreet distance, Em followed on foot. She would be safe with the Continental Navy. Her plan was to stow away, hide on their ship for as long as she could manage. And then, when they had sailed far enough from Jamestown and she was in earnest need of sustenance, she would reveal herself. The officers would simply have to provide for her. At least until she found a way off the ship.
Where she would disembark and what, exactly, she intended to do from there was anyone’s guess. But she didn’t want to think ahead. One step at a time, she assured herself, attempting to keep up in the commander’s brisk wake.
Em thought she’d be walking all evening when they approached the port’s end. A lone, three-masted, square rigger lurked in the calm black river. No more oil lamps peppered this empty stretch of harbor, and Em couldn’t make out the rigger’s flags. But even in the darkness, something about it appeared aged, almost antique. Perhaps even the navy was struggling for funds these days, like anyone else, she thought.
The figure she’d been pursuing stopped briefly to speak with someone at the gangway, though she couldn’t see who. She strained to listen. She was sure she caught the cadence of a melodic tenor over the gently lapping river.
Both men ascended the gangway, and Em braced herself, hitching up the hem of her Brunswick. As they disappeared from view, she repositioned her bundle over her shoulder and da
rted after them. Her shoes slipped on the slick boarding ramp. Righting herself, she continued up the height of the plank, until finding herself high on deck.
A torch burned fiercely in the center of the ship beneath the mainmasts, casting lively shapes on deck and accentuating the already imposing height of the towering sails. Farther up, below the foresail, a circle of sailors converged, chatting and chuckling in low voices. Ducking so that she wouldn’t be seen, Em moved in the opposite direction, toward the mizzen.
A sense of exhilaration touched her like a swooping gull as she crept beneath the looming masts. She’d done it! Any number of things could have gone wrong that night. But against all odds, she had made it, had succeeded in her daring escape.
She indulged in a moment’s concern, hoping Liberty would make it back to the farm all right, and that Jackey wouldn’t miss her too much while she was gone. And would she ever return? She supposed so, someday…but then, she’d likely receive no other marriage proposals again. Not after causing such a scene as her disappearance invariably would. Yes, this might be the ruin of Emeline Winthrop’s reputation. But even condemnation to a spinster’s life was preferable to…whatever Mr. Grady would do with her as his wife.
Her inner musings were short-lived as the gangplank was noisily raised and the rigger gave an all-too-sudden lurch. She lost her equilibrium, the deck suddenly unstable beneath her. She whipped out her arms for balance, accidentally dropping her bundle. The coins and soap within it thudded against the floor. She winced, hurrying to retrieve it and hoping no one had heard the sound it made.
Masculine voices rode the wind, and men began to move about the deck. Em pressed herself into a corner, her pulse thumping. She clutched the scarf to her breast as if to muffle her rapid heartbeats. She had boarded not a moment too soon, for it appeared they were already setting sail. She wondered why so late, and so hastily after the commander’s arrival.
The vessel was swift, aided by a fresh current of vernal winds. Already, the harbor was drifting behind them into blackness, the James River spreading out along the contours of the land.