Bitterness boiled in Alden’s throat, his heart slamming against his chest. His father had no idea what he had been doing, and he didn’t care to know. “I’ve been studying law, not pandering to anyone.”
His father held out the whip, but Alden didn’t take it. “Where is Benjamin?” he asked.
“By the pillory.”
Alden followed his father and Moses into the barn, between the wooden racks and ropes that held the tobacco as it dried each summer and fall. Light slipped through the cracks in the walls, falling on scraps of dried leaves and straw that cluttered the dirt floor.
The wooden pillory was located at the other end of the barn, positioned by the back entrance so their slaves could see them whenever they entered the barn. Usually Jeptha flogged the slaves who’d tried to run, but his father was seething in his anger—it seemed at both Benjamin and Alden.
Was it because he and Benjamin had once been friends? Or because Alden had been determined to finish law school? Or perhaps his father finally realized that Alden hated the institution called slavery.
Benjamin’s head wasn’t in the pillory, but his legs were shackled to it, his face bloodied, back bare. At one time, his friend’s gaze had been filled with mischievousness—laughter—but all Alden saw now was rage, like the anger that boiled in his father.
What would his fellow students do if they saw Benjamin here in chains? The abolitionists would be livid at the injustice of it. It might even incite them to give up their cigars.
Moses growled as John spoke to Benjamin. “Apparently Jeptha and I haven’t given you enough incentive to stay on the plantation,” he said, his voice steely and cool. “This time you won’t forget to stay where God meant for you to be.”
Benjamin jerked against the shackles around his ankles. “You don’t speak on behalf of God, John Payne.”
He leaned toward the young man. “Master Payne.”
Benjamin stilled, his gaze strong. “Only master I have is Master Jesus.”
Alden’s father unwound the whip, cracked it toward the pillory. Alden flinched as the sound echoed through the barn. He remembered the lashes on his own backside when he’d been a child, after he’d convinced Benjamin to go swimming in Morris Creek. The bruises had lasted for weeks.
His father held the handle out toward him again. “You must step into your role, son.”
Alden looked at the whip as if it were a black snake, one of the deadly moccasins that hid along the banks of the creek. And courage swelled inside him. A moccasin only killed those who didn’t respect its territory. Those who weren’t paying attention.
He met Benjamin’s gaze, and his old friend glared back at him, as if he thought Alden wanted to keep him in chains too.
Alden glanced back up at his father. “He only wants freedom, like all of us.”
“Freedom to do what?” his father asked, his voice rising.
“Get an education or run a plantation or maybe have a family.” Alden looked back at his friend. “What do you want, Benjamin?”
“Don’t say a word,” his father commanded, so bent on punishment that he refused to acknowledge Benjamin’s personhood. Or perhaps he couldn’t allow himself to acknowledge that Benjamin had the capacity to learn and lead and love. The realization might destroy him.
He threw the whip at Alden’s feet. “Flog him.”
Alden could no longer stand on that shaky middle ground, betwixt and between. The line was invisible, but it had been traced into the dirt and straw. He had to choose now, between his past and his future, between what he believed to be right and wrong.
Benjamin strained against the shackles again, continuing to struggle even when the fight was hopeless.
Alden buried his hands in his coat pockets. “I won’t flog anyone.”
“You will do it.”
“I can’t flog him,” Alden said. “Benjamin’s like a brother to me.”
“He is not your brother!”
Why didn’t his father understand? If he’d grown up with a Negro boy as his best friend, he wouldn’t be able to whip him either.
His father reached down, snatching it from the ground. “You are a coward.”
And he was right. He was a coward—not because he wouldn’t punish Benjamin but because he was afraid to stand up to his father. He hated slavery, hated the man holding the whip for promulgating it, hated himself for not doing anything to stop men like Benjamin from getting hurt.
His father took off his hat and hung it on the side of the pillory. Then he draped his coat beside it. Grabbing Benjamin by the arm, he tried to force him to stand up. Benjamin fell back against the wooden post. His body had already been beaten, and even in the dim light, Alden could see the bruises spreading across his back.
The whip cracked, snapping over Benjamin’s arms. Across his legs.
A dragon roared inside Alden, an erupting fire. He may be a coward, but he couldn’t allow his father to whip his injured friend, especially when his only crime was to pursue freedom for his life. He’d tried to honor his parents the best he could, but in this, he couldn’t turn aside.
Alden stepped between the men.
“Get out of the way,” his father demanded, waving his hand.
“If you are going to whip him, you must whip me too.”
His father lifted the whip again, fury blazing across his face. Most of the thongs hit the sleeve of Alden’s coat, but one hit his face, the pain searing his skin.
His father dropped the whip, and dust curled around his feet. “Now see what you’ve done.”
Alden covered his cheek with the back of his hand, not daring to reply. He hoped what he had done was protect Benjamin from a flogging he didn’t deserve.
His father pointed him toward the door. “Go back to the house.”
“Not without you,” Alden said. “Mother is expecting us to celebrate Christmas Eve as a family.”
His father swore; then he kicked the whip away from Benjamin before plucking his cloak and hat from the pillory. He and Moses marched back toward the door, leaving Benjamin shackled on the floor.
Alden lingered for another moment. Benjamin didn’t speak, but it seemed his anger at Alden had subsided. Benjamin gave him the slightest nod, the same look that had passed between them a hundred times when they were kids, especially when Alden was called away from their playtime to join the adults while Benjamin was allowed to stay upstairs, surrounded by their toys. He’d been jealous of him back then.
“Your mother is waiting,” his father called from the other end of the barn.
“I’ll come back for you,” Alden promised Benjamin before following his father to the house.
“What happened to your face?” Rhody asked as Alden stepped into the dining room for the Christmas Eve dinner.
“I got hit by a whip.”
His sister laughed, thinking he was making a joke.
Stella Bradford was already seated on his left, wrapped in green velvet, with lace on her sleeves, and Rhody sat across the table from her. His father was at the head of the table, his mother at its foot. Beside his father were Stella’s parents, and Mr. and Mrs. Morris, who owned the moccasin-infested creek, sat on the opposite end.
It appeared that his mother had distracted herself by decorating this afternoon. Strips of silky white were draped from the chandelier to each corner of the ceiling, and a silver candelabrum with white candles stood as the table’s centerpiece. In front of each place setting was a spray of red flowers, displayed in a slender glass vase beside the goblets of sherry.
“How was your journey?” Stella asked.
“Tolerable,” he replied. “It was snowing when I took the train through New York.”
“How I wish we would get snow this year.” Stella swirled the sherry in her goblet. “It makes everything look so magical.”
His father’s chair scraped against the wood as he stood and began to pray over the meal, an elaborate show of thanksgiving. Alden glanced around the table at all the head
s bowed in prayer. How could his parents and Rhody enjoy this meal knowing that Benjamin was shackled out in the barn? That he was hurting and hungry?
His gaze landed on Thomas, who was waiting along the wallpapered wall with a silver platter in his gloved hands. His mother must have instructed Victor and Eliza’s coachman to assist the other house slaves with dinner, but he didn’t see Isaac.
In all the confusion, he’d forgotten about the boy who didn’t seem to realize he was a slave. Poor Isaac. He might be dreaming about California, but there would be no future for him outside Virginia. No schooling and no freedom even to speak his mind. His tongue would have to be lassoed for a lifetime.
After his father finished praying, Thomas stepped forward to place a fricandeau of veal on each plate. Even though the smell was intoxicating, Alden’s appetite had waned.
His mother lifted her fork. “It’s your favorite, Alden.”
“I fear my tastes have changed.”
“Oh, Alden.” Rhody laughed. “Don’t be so disagreeable.”
Part of him wished he could block out Benjamin’s face and his agony, like the rest of them. He was tired of feeling so helpless. Trapped.
Tonight, both he and Benjamin would break free.
“Did you find your slave?” Mr. Morris asked.
His father nodded. “Rhody found him for me.”
“It wasn’t hard,” she replied. “He left tracks across the church foyer.”
John took another bite of the braised veal. “Rhody’s better than any of my hound dogs.”
A proud smile slid across his sister’s face again, her youth evident in the ribbons that Mammy had woven through her blonde hair, but she was growing more mature each time he came home. And more like the man who’d reared her.
“Father taught me well.”
Alden shook his head. Even if his sister hadn’t spent hours listening to the lectures of abolitionists, how had her heart grown so cold? Alden was six years older than Rhody, but Benjamin was only four years her senior. Rhody and Benjamin had played together for years, from the time she’d been old enough to stumble over the wooden blocks in the nursery.
Rhody sipped gingerly on her sherry before changing the subject. “I heard Robert Kelly just returned from California.”
Mr. Morris leaned forward, an extra layer of flesh bulging above his collar. “Did he find his gold?”
Rhody dabbed her napkin on her lips. “Claims he brought enough home to save their plantation.”
“At least he’s doing something to help his father,” John said, pushing away his plate.
Alden ignored the slight.
“The Daily Dispatch said millions of dollars’ worth of gold are buried out there.”
“Then I wonder why he came home,” Alden said.
Rhody glanced over at him. “I’d go to California if I could.”
His mother set down her spoon. “There are no ladies out west.”
“And no slaves,” Stella said. “At least that’s what Robert said.”
“Now, Stella—” Mrs. Bradford started, but his mother’s curiosity had already been piqued.
“You’ve seen Mr. Kelly?”
Stella blushed. “I suppose I have.”
“We all visited him,” Mrs. Bradford explained. “As a family.”
As the others talked about California, an idea began to sprout in Alden’s mind. He’d been offered an apprenticeship with Judah Fallow, an attorney who’d left Boston for San Francisco more than a year ago. But what if he didn’t go alone? What if Benjamin went with him? If there really were no slaves in California, they could partner together as free men.
Stella elbowed him. “You’re awfully quiet.”
“I’m just thinking.”
She smiled at him, the pink in her cheeks glowing in the candlelight. “About the future?”
His mother smiled as she took another bite of veal. “One more season and then Alden will be home for good.”
Chapter 5
Sacramento City
December 1853
Isabelle rinsed her face in the basin of cold water and slathered her face and arms with a milky cucumber-and-lemon cream. Then she climbed between the clean sheets of a bed located on the hotel’s third floor.
She’d given Fanny the two rooms she’d been occupying next to the dining room—they reminded her too much of Ross to stay there anyway. The feather mattress should help the woman’s rocking world settle, though the truth of what Ross had done might set it churning again.
The people of Sacramento were too preoccupied to celebrate Christmas Eve, but back in Baltimore, she and Aunt Emeline would have strewn an evergreen tree with popcorn and bows. Then Uncle William would read from the old family Bible about the journey of a woman who’d birthed a remarkable baby in her youth.
A baby who ended up saving the world.
Fanny didn’t seem to realize it was Christmas Eve. Or perhaps she didn’t care. After her long journey, all Fanny wanted was to bathe, eat, sleep—and find her husband.
Isabelle couldn’t begin to comprehend what would happen when Ross did return.
His face flashed into her mind, his dark-blond hair parted neatly in the middle, the beard he trimmed faithfully even when most men in California no longer bothered with the cost or hassle of doing so. She’d stopped trusting men a long time ago, but he had won her trust with his confidence and because of his compassion toward her aunt.
She’d thought she had found a man who would be faithful to her, a man she could trust, but it was all a façade. A California mirage. He hadn’t left behind a sister in New York or a fine hotel. According to Fanny, he’d never owned or even managed any other sort of establishment. Fanny’s father had hired Ross to work on his stud farm, though he hadn’t worked there long. Ross and Fanny were married six months after he came to their farm, long enough to earn the rest of the money he needed to travel west.
He had been as unqualified as she and Aunt Emeline when it came to hotel management. Perhaps even more so. At least Uncle William and Aunt Emeline had operated the mercantile in Baltimore. Her aunt had kept the accounts for that business and helped Uncle William purchase supplies for their shop, especially items for their female clientele. Then she’d taught Isabelle how to operate the business in the hours after school.
Isabelle had trusted Ross when he’d said he loved her. That he wanted to spend his life with her. But all along, he’d been hiding the fact that he was already married.
Her hand brushed over her right shoulder; then she tucked it back under the covers. She had secrets of her own—no one except Emeline knew about her past, and even her aunt didn’t know the entire story. She’d intended to tell Ross everything before she married him and let him decide if he wanted to proceed.
Even if California was a sanctuary, a place for people to hide from their pasts, it wasn’t right to keep secrets from the man—or woman—you intended to marry. Especially if your secret was that you happened to already have a wife!
How could she have been so wrong about Ross?
As she lay on the guest bed, the mattress stuffed with dried grass, she felt no ill will toward Fanny—it wasn’t her fault that Ross had played them both for fools. She should have questioned the many letters from his sister, his relentless pursuit of wealth when she wanted security through the steady business of their hotel, his lack of communication from the diggings even after he’d asked her to become his wife.
She had no intention of telling Fanny the complete truth about her and Ross’s relationship. First of all, she was mortified that she had considered marrying another woman’s husband. And second, she wasn’t certain how Fanny would react when she found out what Ross had done.
Better to wait until Ross returned. He’d caused this mess—he should be honest about his deception.
She clasped her hands together, holding them against her chest. Was her heart forever scarred from loving a man? Perhaps she would never be able to marry.
Sta
rlight edged through the curtains on the window, offering an escape into the peaceful world of sleep, but still her eyes wouldn’t rest. Hours ago, she’d been excited to see Ross, counting down the months until they married. What would she say when he returned now?
Another thought crept slowly into her mind, startling her.
Perhaps Ross hadn’t really been planning to marry her at all. He’d made good use of their partnership over the years, of the money that Aunt Emeline had invested into their work. Perhaps he’d been mining as well in the city, except he’d been trying to extract gold from the pockets of her and Aunt Emeline to supplement what he found in the diggings.
In hindsight, Ross hadn’t volunteered to compensate her or her aunt when he’d decided to head east to the goldfields. Aunt Emeline had asked a local attorney to draw up papers that clarified their agreement, and Ross signed them without comment.
Isabelle had stored the papers downstairs, not bothering to read what she’d thought to be inconsequential, but the terms on that contract would be critical now. Slipping out of her bed, she reached for her silk robe and lantern before moving down the steps, into the lobby.
The front door was already locked, the curtains over the picture window closed. Even if all her guests were asleep, she still took the precaution of locking the door to the dining room as well.
Behind the counter, she pushed aside the chair from her desk and folded back the rug. When she pulled up on a latch between the planks, a wooden panel lifted up toward her. Then she climbed down the rungs of a wooden ladder, the lantern in her hand illuminating the small room between her building and the bank next door.
Both buildings had been built after the 1850 flood. The previous owner had installed this space between the walls of his two buildings to store gold as well as to hide on occasion from those angry at him and his questionable business practices. There was no back door to this building, so after hiding, he would escape through a hatch he’d built into the back wall, slipping into a small courtyard along the alleyway.
Eventually the people of Sacramento drummed the man out of town, but as far as she knew, they’d never discovered his hiding place. When Aunt Emeline bought the hotel, she’d asked Ross to bolt up the entrance into the building next door.
Beneath a Golden Veil Page 4