Beneath a Golden Veil

by Melanie Dobson

  Her secret could no longer be kept safe, but she was a free woman. Even the courts would respect that.

  She prayed they would also let a mother keep her son.

  She handed the remaining key to Isaac before showing him the lockbox. “This contains the rest of my money and the deed to the Golden. If I don’t come back, you and Alden need to leave for Vancouver Island as fast as you can.”

  Tears filled his eyes again. “I’m not going north without you.”

  She kissed his forehead. Then she slipped a dress out of the bureau—an ivory silk with French lace on the sleeves—and while Isaac waited outside the room, she changed her clothing before walking alone to justice court.

  Two lanterns poured light across the judge’s small bench and thirty or so miners huddled together in the cramped space. Alden sat in a chair beside the judge, his jaw firm. Isabelle didn’t see Victor nor did she allow herself to search for him in the crowd. Instead, she elbowed her way through the miners until she reached the bench.

  The judge was middle-aged, with a thick beard, and wore a formal black gown that made him look as distinguished as the judge back in Sacramento. She stood confident before him, glad she had worn her silk gown. “I’d like to speak on behalf of the defendant.”

  The judge scanned her attire. “Are you his wife?”

  Her gaze wandered over to Alden, and in his eyes, she saw compassion. And concern. He’d been caught in the middle, trying to do what was right in a system gone awry.

  She faced the judge again. “No, we’re not married.”

  “Then what do you have to say?”

  “I don’t believe Mr. Duvall wants Mr. Payne or even Isaac. I believe he wants—”

  Behind her, Victor shouted out, interrupting her. “She has no right to speak in court, Your Honor.”

  The judge glared at him. “I will say who speaks in this court, Mr. Duvall.”

  For a moment, she felt like that twelve-year-old girl again, forced against her will to become what Victor had called his bride. The pain welled up inside her, battling the confidence that she wanted her clothing to portray.

  Slowly she turned to face the man who had wounded her deeply with his twisted version of love. Victor looked smaller than she remembered, and instead of the fine suits he wore back in West End, his clothing was filthy. Threadbare.

  But the smirk on his face, that shell of pride, had not changed. “The law clearly states that a slave cannot speak in a courtroom,” Victor told the judge.

  She lifted her shoulders. “I am not a slave.”

  “Or any Negro,” Victor continued. Then he turned to look at her, a frightening smile on his lips. “Hello, Mallie.”

  The same greeting he’d given her every time he’d awakened her during the night.

  She opened her mouth, ready to deny the claim of her ancestry, but how could she defend herself? Negro blood did run through her veins, pouring down from her mother’s side of the family. But for the first time in her life, she felt the worth and dignity of her heritage. Even though her ancestors were victims of slavery, they had been courageous. The men and women before her didn’t just survive; they had persevered in the face of injustice.

  And she would persevere as well.

  She didn’t dare look over at Alden, but she turned back toward the judge and placed her freedom paper on the desk. “This is my emancipation.”

  The man didn’t even look at the document. Instead, he studied her olive-colored arms. “I’m sorry, Miss—” he started, clearly confused about what to call her.

  “Miss Labrie,” she said boldly. In the power of that name, she was exactly who she’d chosen to be and who she wanted to become—a courageous, educated, free woman who feared no one but God.

  “Are you a Negro?” he asked.

  “My mother was of African descent,” she said proudly. “Her skin was as light as mine, but the color of skin shouldn’t matter in regard to one’s testimony.”

  The judge pushed her paper back toward her, as if her freedom was meaningless to him. “Unfortunately, your ancestry matters very much under the confines of federal law.”

  She took her paper back, the value of it worth more to her than a thousand nuggets of gold.

  “Do you still own her?” the judge asked Victor, promptly resigning her back to the equality of a cow or pig.

  Victor nodded slowly. “She’s been mine since she was twelve.”

  “How can you prove it?”

  Victor walked forward, whispered something to the judge, and fear snaked through her again.

  How was she supposed to defend Alden if the judge wouldn’t let her talk? And how could she explain that the boy Victor wanted was her son? A boy who should stay with his mother.

  “Your Honor—” she tried again, holding up her freedom paper.

  “You can’t speak on your own behalf.”

  “But I must.”

  “If you say another word, Miss Labrie, I will have you escorted to the jail.” The judge paused, glancing around the courtroom. “Is there anyone here who can speak for her?”

  Instead of someone answering the judge’s question, an eerie silence replaced the rustling in the courtroom. Alden wanted to jump out of his seat and speak boldly on Isabelle’s behalf as a witness, but he’d seen her as a slave back at the Duvall house. He knew that Victor had owned her. His testimony, he feared, would harm instead of help.

  The lechery in his brother-in-law’s eyes sickened him, but in Isabelle’s eyes, he saw courage. The woman had walked through the fire, and she still continued to fight.

  Passion is most powerful when bridled by restraint.

  As the dean’s words echoed through his mind again, he knew he must bridle his own fury and fight for Isabelle with words seared by truth.

  In the lull of silence, he raised his hand. The judge in Sacramento wouldn’t let him defend Isabelle until he passed the bar, but Judge Roth might be different. Instead of speaking about Isabelle’s past, perhaps the judge would allow him to defend her future.

  “Yes, Mr. Payne?”

  “I would like to act as Miss Labrie’s counsel.”

  The man pressed his hands together in front of his face. “Are you a lawyer?”

  “I attended the law school at Harvard College in Massachusetts.”

  “Have you passed the California bar?”

  “Not yet.”

  Judge Roth studied Isabelle for another moment before looking back at him. “I think we could remedy that.” He leaned back in his chair. “I can admit a candidate to practice law in this court, but if you want to practice anyplace else, you’ll have to go before the Supreme Court in San Francisco.”

  “I understand.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, the judge grilled Alden on federal and state law, particularly when it came to the laws of slavery. Yes, he knew that California was officially a free state, though the laws about fugitive slaves applied here. Yes, he realized anyone caught helping a fugitive was subject to imprisonment and a fine.

  Judge Roth made it known that he hadn’t forgotten Victor’s initial case against Alden regarding the stolen property, but he could help Isabelle first and then defend himself and Isaac.

  Alden pointed back at his brother-in-law. “Mr. Duvall has no evidence that this woman was once his slave.”

  “That’s not true,” Victor blurted out. “I have the deed with her name on it.”

  “You could claim any woman as your slave.”

  “Perhaps.” Victor stepped up beside Isabelle and fingered the lace on her sleeve. “But all my slaves have been branded.”

  Bridled words escaped Alden. He wanted to strangle this maniac for scarring Isaac and Isabelle. Make him pay dearly for what he had done.

  Victor touched Isabelle’s neck, and she flinched. “Show them your shoulder.”

  Alden towered over him. “Take your hands off my client.”

  The judge agreed with a sharp nod. “Don’t touch her, Mr. Duvall.”

>   Victor lowered his hand. “Show them your mark, Mallie.”

  Isabelle shook her head, but this time, Judge Roth concurred with him. “We need to see it.”

  Alden slammed his fist on the desk. “This is a court of law, Your Honor.”

  “It is necessary.”

  When Isabelle looked at him, he saw the young slave woman again, a victim of her circumstances. He’d thought she was pretty back at West End as well, and in his youthful mind, he’d been a wretched soul, just as bad as Victor in his core. But he’d chosen to fight against the evil back then, and he’d fight now for the purity of the woman standing before them all.

  Alden swept his arm across the courtroom. “We must all protect Miss Labrie’s dignity.”

  Judge Roth seemed to mull over his words, and Alden wondered if the man had ever considered that a slave might want—or have—any dignity. But he finally commanded all the spectators to leave. The miners filed out grudgingly, the last one closing the doors. They didn’t go far, though—a crowd of them remained outside, peering around the edges of the etched glass on the window.

  Alden stepped behind Isabelle to block their view, and with her eyes focused on the floor, she slowly unbuttoned her bodice and rolled back the lace collar to expose her skin. Alden knew he would see the red V inside the rosebud, but still he cringed.

  “I branded her myself,” Victor said proudly. “When she was twelve years old.”

  Even the judge seemed stunned into silence.

  “I want her and my other slave,” Victor demanded.

  “One slave at a time please, Mr. Duvall.”

  Isabelle looked over at Alden, and he could see the humiliation in her eyes. And a plea.

  “May I consult with my client?” Alden asked the judge.

  The man glanced at the clock on the wall. “You have two minutes.”

  Alden nodded before guiding Isabelle toward the window. At least a dozen men stared back at them, but Judge Roth didn’t invite them back inside.

  “I’m so sorry, Isabelle.”

  “I wanted to help you and Isaac,” she said, buttoning up her dress. “Instead, I made a mess of it.”

  “We’ll put all the pieces back together again.”

  “I have something to show you,” Isabelle said, handing over the papers. “It’s my bill of sale, from Eliza to the Labries. And this is my emancipation. The Labries wanted to make sure I would always be free.”

  Alden skimmed the papers, and then he smiled. They were fair copies—originals. “The judge may not let you speak, but he won’t be able to argue with these.”

  “I have something else to tell you—” she started.

  Judge Roth hit the gavel on his desk. “Time’s up.”

  “This should be enough for now.” Alden turned to the judge and placed the papers before him. “According to her former owner, and the state of Maryland, Miss Labrie is free.”

  Victor sprung forward, shaking his head. “I never emancipated her.”

  The judge read through the documents and then showed the bill of sale to Victor.

  “Is this your signature?”

  He barely glanced at it. “No, Your Honor.”

  “Then who sold her?”

  The three men were silent as they turned toward Isabelle. And with great strength, she smiled back at them. She was the only one who knew the answer.

  “Would you like me to consult with Miss Labrie again?” Alden asked.

  “No,” the judge said, growing frustrated. “Miss Labrie, who sold you?”

  “Eliza Duvall,” she answered clearly. “Victor’s wife.”

  Victor’s cheeks flooded with red. “It’s illegal in the state of Virginia for a woman to sell her husband’s property.”

  “That may be so,” Alden said. “But we are no longer in the state of Virginia.”

  “I have something else.” Victor reached for the portfolio he’d left on his chair. “It’s the deed of ownership for Mallie. She and all my slaves were passed on to me after my father’s death.”

  Isabelle held her breath as the judge reviewed the paper. When he looked up again, he seemed confused. “This isn’t a deed of ownership.”

  Alden stepped forward. “What is it?”

  “It’s a deed of manumission, saying that the slave girl named Mallie is eligible to obtain her freedom when she turns twenty-one.”

  Victor swore.

  The judge looked over at Isabelle. “Have you turned twenty-one?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Judge Roth turned back toward Victor, studying his ragged clothing. “Do you know how to read, sir?”

  “I don’t know what that has to do with—”

  “You might ask someone to inspect any other deeds you have.”

  Victor placed a pile of papers on the desk. “One of these is the certificate of birth for Isaac.”

  The judge rummaged through the papers until he found it. Then he turned toward Alden. “As long as you and Miss Labrie produce Mr. Duvall’s slave boy in the morning, I’ll release you both with a fine.”

  Chapter 44

  Columbia

  August 1854

  There she blows.

  The words of Captain Ahab played in Victor’s mind as he looked down on Mallie, sleeping in her hotel room bed, just like he’d found her many times back at her room in West End. He’d bribed one of the men downstairs to unlock her door, saying he’d had a fight with his wife and she refused to let him back in.

  He didn’t care what a measly justice of the peace said. Nor did he care about the ruling of any court of law or what his cursed father did to humiliate him.

  Mallie was his white whale, his rose among weeds. He would not leave California without her.

  Back in Virginia, no one would care about a manumission paper. They all knew Mallie was his, including Eliza. And Eliza would pay for stealing Mallie away and then lying to him.

  He took a draw on the cigar he’d taken from one of the miners and let the smoke settle over her bed. Then he slid the bowie knife out of the sheath and held it up in the glimmer of moon. The light danced off it, a silver glint on the wall.

  “Hello, Mallie,” he whispered.

  She awoke with a start, and her eyes grew wide with alarm when she saw him and his knife. She sat up, pulling her bedcovers over her chest.

  “What are you doing here, Victor?”

  “Master Duvall.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I will never call you master again.”

  He set the cigar on her bed stand and sat beside her. “So you thought you could run away with Alden Payne.”

  “I didn’t think any such thing.”

  He traced the line of her neck with the blade until it rested on her collarbone. “Were you seducing him too, under my roof?”

  “You are mad.”

  The tip of the knife pressed against her skin. “I’m going to win, Isabelle. Alden can’t have you any longer.”

  “I don’t care if you kill me,” she said, but her voice shook.

  “Maybe I won’t kill you,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just leave a few more scars.”

  “I’m not your property anymore.”

  “You will always be mine.” He inched the knife slowly away from her neck and put it beside the cigar. Then he took his father’s crumpled manumission paper out of his coat pocket.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked, holding it up in the moonlight.

  She blinked. “I do.”

  He held it over the molten edge of his cigar. The heat licked at the paper until he blew on it. Then it turned into flames, consuming the deed. When the fire got close to his fingers, he blew it out, the embers scattering across the bed.

  “You’ll always be my slave, Mallie. And I will always be your master.”

  She clung to the bedcoverings against her chest, looking at him with a growing confidence that disturbed him. She’d often fought his advances, but she’d never looked him in the eye.

  “What if w
e make a deal?” she asked.

  He scooted closer. “What kind of deal?”

  “I will buy Isaac from you.”

  “At what price?”

  “At whatever price you’d like as long as you set us both free.”

  A laugh escaped his lips, and then he silenced himself lest he awaken someone in the neighboring rooms. “I want both of you, but if I had to choose one, I’d choose you.”

  “I see.” She took a deep breath, her gaze still fixed on his face. “I’ll go back with you, Victor, but only if you leave Isaac here. And you drop your case against Mr. Payne.”

  He contemplated her proposal. It would make things much easier if she would go willingly. He wouldn’t really leave Isaac behind, but if he could appease her now, he would find Isaac—and her money—once he had her in chains.

  Louis Gibbs had offered him six hundred dollars back in Sacramento for a slave boy. It was enough to buy passage for him and Mallie on a ship out of San Francisco. Then they could begin filling the farmhouse with more children, all of them owned by him.

  “Isaac can stay here with Alden,” he said before leaning forward, slowly kissing her forehead. “You and I will leave in the morning.”

  She nodded her head.

  “We’ll celebrate Christmas at home this year.”

  Isabelle crunched her knees up to her chest and sobbed. It felt as if Victor’s lips had burned her forehead, his knife piercing her heart.

  She may no longer belong to Victor in the eyes of the law, but he wouldn’t relent until she went back to Virginia with him. She had to protect Isaac. And Alden. She couldn’t allow Victor Duvall to hurt either of them.

  Her stomach rolled, her mind racing at the thought of being locked back in that chamber in Virginia—her personal slave pen, where she was subject at any hour to Victor’s sick whims.

  Mrs. Duvall would hate her even more now, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  She rocked back against the pillows.

  Some judges esteemed moral law over a federal mandate, but it seemed Judge Roth would never give Isaac to her, even in her freedom. Federal law recognized the bloodline of the female parent, not the father. Isaac had been born a slave, and if she’d didn’t make a deal with Victor, her son would remain one for the rest of his life.