Beneath a Golden Veil

by Melanie Dobson

  No slave—even the most defiant one—should be treated this way, but especially not one so young. It was at least a four-hour drive to Scott’s Grove. If the child didn’t freeze to death, he would surely catch pneumonia or something else from the cold air.

  Eliza and Victor may not care if they lost one of their slaves, but it wouldn’t happen on his watch.

  After they rounded a bend, Alden wiped the fog off the front window and then knocked on the glass until the driver slowed the horses. When the carriage stopped, Alden opened the door, the wind cutting like a knife through his wool coat.

  The coachman looked down over his shoulder. “Yes, Master Payne?”

  “What’s your name?” Alden asked.

  “Thomas, sir.”

  “And do you happen to know the name of the boy sitting on the trunk behind me?”

  “His name is Isaac.”

  “Very good,” Alden replied, stepping down onto the road. A patch of frozen leaves crunched under his boots as he rounded the carriage.

  Isaac’s arms were wrapped around his chest. “Why’d you stop?”

  “I want you to join me inside the carriage.”

  Isaac didn’t move. “The missus told me to stay here.”

  “It’s much warmer in the carriage.”

  When Isaac shook his head, Alden wondered how often the boy had felt Victor’s whip on his back. He tried one more time. “You’ll freeze up there.”

  “Niggas don’t freeze.”

  Alden’s heart raced. “Who told you that?”

  “Master said Africa boiled my blood.”

  “That’s not what I mean. Who said you were—” Alden stopped. “Who called you that name?”

  “The missus,” he said, rubbing his arms. “She don’t know my real name.”

  Alden looked toward Thomas sitting up front in his warm livery jacket, and then back at the boy. “At Scott’s Grove, you’ll be known as Isaac.”

  “That’s fine, mister.” He leaned against the window, his teeth chattering. “But I still ain’t gettin’ in the carriage with you.”

  “I understand.” Alden closed the door to the brougham. Then he removed his leather gloves, stuffing them into his coat pocket before he propped his foot on the axle of the back wheel and propelled himself up on the spokes. “I shall have to join you up here, then.”

  When Alden sat down beside him, Isaac scooted to the far side of the trunk. “It’s going to be a long ride to Scott’s Grove.”

  The boy shrugged. “I’ve been on longer ones.”

  Alden replaced his gloves and reached for the strap around the trunk. Then he called toward the front of the carriage. “Drive on, Thomas.”

  The brougham didn’t move.

  His voice rose. “I said to drive.”

  Thomas climbed down from the bench and marched toward the back. Instead of looking toward Alden, he addressed Isaac. “When Master Payne tells you to get into the carriage, you get into the carriage.”

  “But the missus—”

  “Won’t know a thing if none of us tell her,” Thomas said, his deep voice resounding down the quiet road.

  Alden leaned forward to whisper, as if Eliza could hear them from the house. “I won’t say a word.”

  Thomas leaned against the wheel. “Neither will I.”

  Isaac looked at one man then the other. “I’d never tell,” he finally said.

  “Then it’s settled.” Alden inched away from the boy and grasped the side of the trunk before climbing back down the wheel. “Honorable men never break their promises.”

  Inside the carriage, Isaac sat as close to the window as possible, his nose pressed against the glass, his feet tucked under his thighs. Thomas snapped the reins, and the steady beat of horse hooves drummed the route toward home.

  What would the other students at Harvard think about his riding south in a carriage alongside a slave? Many of them were abolitionists, but their rhetoric against the institution of slavery was born out of blind passion. They knew nothing about the practicalities of running a Southern plantation that provided the tobacco they liked to smoke. Nor were they actually doing anything to abolish it.

  Talk was easy. Cheap. Both students and professors liked to rant about freedom for all men—and pontificate about the evil Southern planters—but in Alden’s opinion, none of them were willing to sacrifice a thing—especially not their cigars—to help free the slaves.

  The interior of the brougham was warmer than outside, but the boy beside him could still catch pneumonia. Alden reached under the seat and pulled out a blanket. “Put this around you.”

  Isaac glanced down at the blanket, but he didn’t touch it. “I told you, my blood runs hot.”

  “But your skin doesn’t,” Alden said, holding out the blanket.

  “I’m fine, mister.”

  “Suit yourself.” Alden lowered the blanket. “Are you always this defiant?”

  “Obstinate is what the missus says.”

  “Are you always obstinate?”

  “Only when I have a mind to do what I want.”

  Alden leaned back against the seat. “If you get ill, you won’t be able to work in my father’s tobacco fields.”

  “I don’t aim to work in your father’s fields either way.”

  “I suppose I can’t blame you for that.”

  The boy’s chin climbed a notch. “I’ve got plans for my life.”

  Alden eyed the boy again. He looked like he was about nine years old, but he talked as if he were a young man. “When we reach Scott’s Grove, you’ll want to keep those plans to yourself.”

  Pale gray light slowly rekindled the morning as they journeyed toward the Shenandoah Valley. On the left side of the road was a grove of spindly looking trees. Isaac’s gaze was fixated on the mountain range silhouetted against the horizon on the right. The courtyards up at Harvard were blanketed with fresh snow when Alden left Massachusetts two days ago, but there was no snow yet for Christmas in Virginia.

  “Out of curiosity,” Alden said, “what exactly are your plans?”

  Isaac turned toward him, his face serious. “I’m going to California.”

  That made two of them, then. “And what are you planning to do there?”

  “Find a field of gold.”

  He smiled. “I don’t think it grows out there like corn.”

  “I’ll still find it.”

  “Then you’ll be a wealthy man.”

  Isaac studied him for a moment, as if trying to decide if he were going to trust him. Then he leaned forward. “What are your plans?”

  The carriage hit another rut, and Alden grasped the rail on the side to steady himself. He wasn’t about to share that information with this boy or anyone else, at least until after he spoke with his father. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”

  Isaac eyed the interior of the brougham. “Do you reckon you could drive this all the way to California?”

  “I think passage on a ship would be the best option.”

  “Not if you get seasick.”

  “It’s definitely a risk to consider,” he said. “Are a few months of seasickness worth a field of gold?”

  Isaac seemed to ponder his words. “What’s Scott’s Grove like?”

  “It’s much bigger than the Duvall farm. My father has at least a hundred slaves working the tobacco fields.”

  “I don’t know who my father is,” Isaac told him. “But my mother was a princess.”

  Alden’s eyebrows rose. “A princess?”

  “She was the most beautiful woman in all of Virginia,” Isaac said. “Her father was an African king.”

  “So does that make you a prince?”

  When Isaac nodded his head, Alden had to keep himself from smiling. Unlike his father and Eliza, he believed that slaves felt just as deeply as their owners. He didn’t want to hurt this boy.

  “Missus Eliza said you were going to school to learn the law.”

  Alden nodded. “That’s correct.”
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  “You must be right smart.”

  “School doesn’t make a person smart,” Alden said. In fact, he’d thought himself to be quite smart until he started taking classes at Harvard. Then he realized he didn’t know much of anything.

  “It sure don’t hurt,” Isaac said.

  “I suppose not.”

  “One day, I’m going to school too.”

  Alden glanced out the window at a lake beside them, at the gaggle of geese that peppered its shores. Isaac reminded him of his childhood friend, a Negro boy named Benjamin. Except Alden hadn’t really seen Benjamin’s light-brown skin when they were children. Didn’t ever think about him as a slave. Benjamin was three years younger, and Alden treated him like a brother.

  They used to race through the halls of the plantation house when it was too cold to play in the forest outside. They built forts in the drawing room, played Snakes and Ladders on the floor, and when his father was gone, they bowled in the cellar with his cricket ball.

  They’d been the best of friends until his father sent Benjamin out to work in the tobacco fields the day Benjamin turned twelve. That year, Alden had been sent to Richmond to attend a private school.

  He’d missed his friend when he came home, but he had been too distracted by the flurry of schoolwork to think much about the differences in their positions. Their futures. It wasn’t until he went to Harvard that his eyes were opened to the cruelty of an institution that seemed commonplace in Virginia.

  “What about your mother?” Isaac asked.

  Alden looked back at him. “What about her?”

  “Is she a princess?”

  Alden pondered the question. “More like a queen, I suppose.”

  At least, that’s how he saw Nora Payne. The truth was that he didn’t know his mother very well. He’d been raised by Benjamin’s mother, a beautiful Negro woman they both called Mammy. In his mind, Mammy was the princess.

  Isaac cleared the fog off his window. “How long until we get there?”

  Alden slid his timepiece out of his pocket. “Another three hours.”

  “And how long are we staying?”

  “I’ll be there for two weeks,” he said. He didn’t know how long his father would keep this boy.

  When Isaac yawned, Alden slipped the blanket back out from under the seat and handed it over. This time, the boy didn’t argue.

  As Isaac slept, dread slowly trickled back over Alden. Then it began to pour. As the carriage neared the edge of his family’s tobacco fields, he felt as if he were drowning.

  His father would be happy he’d come home, but it wouldn’t last for long. Not when he found out that his plans for the plantation were about to implode.

  Alden would wait until after Christmas to say what was on his mind. Then he’d brace himself for the aftermath.

  Chapter 2

  Scott’s Grove

  December 1853

  No one—not even Alden’s younger sister, Rhody—rushed out to greet them when the carriage rolled down the long drive at Scott’s Grove. No one saw Isaac climb back onto the top of the trunk a half mile back and wrap himself with the blanket that Alden insisted he use for the end of their journey.

  Usually the fields around the plantation were humming with activity this time of year, every day of the week except the Sabbath. Jeptha—the Negro overseer—made certain slaves were clearing the stalks and burning debris as they prepared the land for next year’s crop.

  Alden had never seen the plantation dormant in the days before Christmas nor had he ever arrived home without his sister racing down the steps to welcome him home.

  Thomas stopped the carriage and opened the door for Alden. Isaac hopped down onto the stone walkway and followed Alden up to the plantation home that was at least twice the size of his former master and mistress’s house.

  It was time for the noon meal, but when Alden opened the front door, he didn’t smell roasted meat or baking bread. The wide entrance hall was silent—no sounds came from either the drawing room on the right of the great hall or the dining room on the left.

  “Where are your people?” Isaac asked behind him.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Perhaps they’ve gone to town.”

  “Perhaps,” he replied, but his family never went to town on Christmas Eve. Typically, the household was bustling with preparations for the holiday meal. His mother directed the house slaves to decorate for their annual party. The cook prepared a goose with sage dressing, the Christmas pudding with currants and raisins, and the eggnog from fresh cream, nutmeg, and Jamaican rum. His father usually worked on the accounts in his office, balking at the festivities until Mother forced him to come celebrate with their family and a few neighbors.

  Alden dropped his valise on the floor and moved forward, expecting to find his mother and sister trimming the Christmas tree in the drawing room, but when he opened the door, no one was inside.

  The fire had been tended in front of the settee, and the logs warmed the room with their steady blaze. An evergreen tree stood by a tall window, its crown brushing the dogwood blossoms and branches molded into the plaster ceiling. But its own branches were void of candles, tinsel, or the garlands made of colorful glass beads. There were no candles or ribboned boughs on the mantle either, no wrapped gifts under the tree.

  It was as if he’d gotten the date wrong, like no one was expecting his return or the holiday.

  The door at the back of the room from his father’s office opened, and his mother walked briskly toward him, her fingers arched stiffly in front of the bodice of her brown muslin dress. Her graying hair was wrapped tightly into a bun, and her lips were pursed firmly together until she saw him.

  “I’m glad you’re home,” she said, but her voice was void of emotion.

  He leaned forward, kissing her cheek. Her skin was as cold as the wind outside the house. “What’s wrong?”

  She drummed her fingers together. “Benjamin has run off again.”

  Alden’s chest clenched at her words. A long time ago, when Benjamin was about fourteen, Alden had told his friend that one day he would help him escape slavery. Alden had been sixteen at the time, but he’d never forgotten his promise. Six years had passed, and he still hadn’t figured out a way to help his friend. Nor, if he was honest with himself, had he tried very hard to come up with a solution.

  Merely thinking about helping Benjamin was just as cheap as all the abolitionist rhetoric up in Cambridge.

  “How many times has he run?” Alden asked.

  “Twice since the summer. Your father is quite distraught.”

  Distraught was probably a vast understatement. His father, he speculated, was raging mad. No one defied John Payne, especially not a slave. And certainly not three times.

  He was shocked that his father hadn’t already sold Benjamin at the market in Charlottesville. Someone else would probably buy him and take him farther south to Mississippi or Louisiana, where it would be impossible to escape.

  But then again, Benjamin had always been a good worker and was stronger than most of his father’s slaves, perhaps because he had grown up with a mother who loved him, plenty of good food, and a best friend to play with outside their house.

  “Where is Mammy?” he asked, overwhelmed by concern for the woman who had raised him. She was probably in her room on her knees, praying that her son would be safe, that freedom would find Benjamin before Master Payne did.

  “How am I supposed to know where that foolish woman is?”

  Alden cringed. “She’s not a fool.”

  His mother walked toward the tree and brushed her hands over the barren needles. “If she’d reared her son the right way, he wouldn’t be running.”

  How could she call Mammy a fool? The woman had poured her life into raising not only her child but also the three Payne children. He, Eliza, and Rhody had adored her, flourished in her affection. As he grew older, he admired Mammy’s courage and tenacity even more when he realized she’d chosen jo
y even when she was enslaved.

  In his heart, he admired Benjamin’s courage too. His determination to leave. Perhaps his friend would find the path to the elusive underground railway that traveled north, to the abolitionists who were risking their lives to help runaways find safety in Canada.

  “Stella is coming this evening with her parents, along with the Morris family,” his mother said. “But if your father doesn’t return by five, it will ruin our dinner plans.”

  “I’m certain they will understand.” It was perfectly fine with him if their dinner plans were ruined. His parents had decided that he and Stella Bradford were to marry after his graduation, but neither he nor Stella had agreed to this marriage. Sitting beside her, everyone hinting and prodding about their future during the meal, was agonizing for both of them.

  She pointed toward the door, the glass trinkets on her bracelet clanging. “There’s soup down in the kitchen. Hattie can serve you lunch.”

  “Is Rhody upstairs?”

  She shook her head. “Rhody went to Charlottesville with your father. Jeptha has the dogs and other slaves searching the fields and forest.”

  How strange it must be for his sixteen-year-old sister to hunt for a slave. And for the other slaves to hunt for a brother, knowing the punishment he would face if they found him—and the swift punishment they’d endure alongside Benjamin if they tried to hide him.

  If a slave found Benjamin, Alden prayed they would ignore him. The dogs were another matter. They were trained to hunt and—

  “Who’s that?” his mother asked, her gaze wandering from the tree branches down to Alden’s side. Isaac stepped out from behind him, his head held high.

  “This is Isaac,” he explained. “Eliza sent him to help in the fields.”

  His mother waved her hand. “He’s too young to do us any good.”

  Isaac started to reply, but Alden placed a firm hand on his shoulder to silence him. He didn’t want Isaac sold before he’d had a chance to prove his worth.

  “I’m sure he’s a hard worker,” Alden said.

  “There’s nothing to him.” His mother glanced out the window and then looked back. “Did Eliza send his papers?”