The Black Knight's Tune

by Naomi Finley

  “I’ll hire a carriage, and we’ll be on our way to Livingston.” Kipling tilted his head to look at the darkening skies.

  By the time we left Charleston behind and the countryside came into view, the skies had let go.

  Kipling regarded me, seated across from him. “The threat of discovery has passed. Yet your smile has not returned. Are you not happy to be seeing Willow and Whitney again?”

  “Yes. Quite.” I stopped picking at the edge of the windowpane with the tip of my gloved finger.

  “Then why the solemn demeanor?”

  I offered a bright smile for his sake, while the twisting in my stomach never eased. He smiled back at me before resting his head back against the seat and closing his eyes. Opening the pocketbook, I withdrew the letter. The list of what-ifs had toyed with me throughout the journey. The stationery had become crumpled and worn from the many times I’d read the letter, searching for what, I wasn’t entirely sure. Hope? Maybe. Or something to grasp onto.

  WHEN WE PULLED INTO LIVINGSTON, Kipling looked out the gap between the curtain and the window. The weariness from our journey faded as his expression transformed into one of wonder—a look he often wore when he thought or spoke of Willow. A pang seized my heart, and without looking, I knew who’d caught his attention.

  The driver opened the door, and I could see Willow waiting on the front gallery. She stood shivering in her rain-drenched blue gown. Her pinned-up hair had flattened in the rain and escaped tendrils cascaded over her shoulders. Excitement and anticipation animated her face. I felt a twinge of jealousy. Only she’d be an image of beauty and poise in her given state.

  The driver waited for Kipling to exit, but he sat unmoving as if lost in a trance, his expression tender. At that moment, I felt a strange connection between us—the respect and passion he held for Willow, a woman who viewed him as a friend, matched my affection for a man who’d become my greatest of friends.

  “Sir,” the driver said.

  Kipling shook his head, and his eyes fell on me. Though I wanted to offer him a friendly smile, I couldn’t. The dread of having to watch Kipling swoon over Willow plunged me into despair. She didn’t deserve my ill thoughts, nor did he, but I couldn’t shake the despondency overshadowing me.

  Kipling opened his mouth to speak, but then as if reconsidering, he stepped out.

  The driver stood holding the umbrella over Kipling. I disembarked and closed the door. Kipling splashed through the puddles toward Willow and the shelter of the gallery. The driver ran to keep up with him, never once offering the courtesy of cover from the storm to a slave. I hastened my steps to follow behind my master…my friend.

  After a stableman came and took the driver and horses around back, Willow spoke. “What happened? Where’s Ruby?” Disappointment lined her words.

  Guilt and shame swept over me at the jealousy I’d harbored over Kipling’s feelings for her. She was my friend, and her affection for me was palpable in her voice.

  “I give you Jacob.” Kipling sidestepped to give Willow a clear view of me.

  I removed my hat and bowed graciously.

  “It’s a pleasure,” Willow said to me and eyed Kipling with building annoyance. “That’s all well and good. Now, answer my question. Was she ill?”

  Kipling tipped back his head and laughed. His amusement was utterly lost on her.

  Mary Grace and a tall, lanky slave girl stepped out onto the gallery. Mary Grace’s face radiated her delight at our arrival but soon slipped into the same puzzlement on Willow’s face. The other slave girl stood with her hands aligned at her sides and her eyes fixed on the ground.

  “Mary Grace, please see to it that our guest is fed and made comfortable until Kip’s ready to leave,” Willow said.

  Mary Grace gestured for me to follow, and replacing my hat, I hurried after her.

  “Sending me on my way already?” I heard Kipling say as we rounded the gallery to the back of the house.

  I halted as I took in my first view of a working plantation. In New York, I was used to being the minority, but as I looked out over the grounds, I saw a sea of people with complexions like mine. A sense of kinship gripped me.

  “Sir, follow me,” Mary Grace called from the bottom of the steps.

  I nodded.

  She pivoted and made her way to a small outbuilding not far from the main house. I clambered down the steps after her, pulling up the collar of my coat to cut off the rain trickling down my neck. She waited for me to catch up before pushing open the door and climbing the couple of wooden steps and going inside. From the doorway, I realized it was a kitchen of sorts.

  “Come on, get in here before the rain washes you away,” she said.

  I stepped inside and glanced around the room, inhaling the scent of lemon and lye soap. In the center of the table sat a blue, flower-patterned bowl filled with polished red apples. Shelves were lined with jars of spices, dried herbs, and various cooking ingredients. Each item was color-coordinated and facing straight outward. Everything in the room had its place. I became aware of the rain dripping from my clothes and puddling on the recently mopped floor.

  “Don’t worry about the mess. It’s nothing a quick mopping can’t take care of,” she said, avoiding my gaze. Her stiff posture suggested she was on edge at being alone with me.

  “Mama doesn’t take too kindly to folks messing around in her kitchen. If it’s all right with you, I’ll fix you up a small bite to hold the stomach cramps at bay until she makes her way down here.”

  In the corner of the spotless plank countertop, she removed a white cloth and revealed a loaf of bread. “Made fresh yesterday.”

  My mouth salivated and my stomach rumbled with spasmodic hunger.

  She cut off a thick slice of the loaf, carved off a wedge of butter, and slathered a generous helping over the slab of bread.

  I took a seat on one of the two chairs at either end of the wooden table. A bench sat on one side of the table. At my back, the open fire warmed my chilled bones.

  “You don’t talk much, do you,” Mary Grace said without turning.

  “For the part I had to play since we left home, it was easier to be quiet.” I removed my hat.

  Mary Grace spun with the knife in hand, her mouth agape.

  I grinned, rubbing a self-conscious hand over my short-cropped hair.

  “Ruby!” She dropped the knife, and it clattered on the floor.

  “Shocking, right?” I laughed.

  She shook her head.

  “I could hardly travel alone with a white man. And we thought it best if I took on the alias of Jacob, the manservant to Mr. Reed, for most of the journey.”

  A beautiful smile crept across her face. Captivating hardly seemed like the appropriate word to describe the beauty of Mary Grace. Her dark eyes were tinged with green, and her flawless caramel skin was smooth and silky, like freshly whipped butter. Her exotic appearance was dangerous for a mixed woman, and I’d remembered the price that beauty had cost her. My stomach hardened with the recollection of what she’d suffered.

  She turned and grabbed a plate from the cupboard and brought it to me, setting it down on the table.

  “It’s good to see you again.” I lifted the bread and, not waiting for a reply, sank my teeth into it. My eyes widened as the delectable taste of molasses in the oat bread and the creamy saltiness of the butter sent my taste buds into blissful happiness. I moaned with satisfaction and swallowed. “Who made this?”

  “Mama.” Pride shone on her face.

  “Ah yes, I do recall Miss Willow singing the praises of your mama’s cooking when you all were in New York.”

  “Mama says she doesn’t know how Miss Willow remains slim with her love for food.”

  Born perfect, the demon in my ear chimed. Stop it! I gritted my teeth and lowered my eyes, ashamed at the sinful chirping in my head.

  “Is something wrong?” Mary Grace’s pride wilted into confusion.

  “No,” I said. “But if you don’t mind,
I’d love to be rid of these clothes and slip into something more feminine.”

  “Certainly; I’ll have your luggage taken to the cabin. You can change before we head up to the main house to surprise Miss Willow and Miss Whitney. That’s if Mr. Reed hasn’t given it away already.”

  “Very much appreciated.” I stuffed the last of the bread in my mouth and brushed the crumbs from my lips with the back of my hand.

  “Yes, manly indeed,” she said with a giggle, her eyes sweeping over me from tip of my oversized boots to the top of my wooly mane.

  MARY GRACE SHOWED ME TO a cabin that sat apart from the others in the quarters, tucked in the shade of two massive live oaks, and positioned to overlook the river. Red and pink camellias lined the stone walkway leading up to the front porch. Their delicate bonnets tucked in, shielding them from the pelting rain.

  “Welcome to the marriage cabin.” Mary Grace’s eyes gleamed with amusement as she pushed open the door and motioned for me to enter.

  I stepped inside, arching a brow at her reference. “Marriage cabin?”

  The one-room cabin smelled of the same lemon and lye soap as the kitchen building. On the small table sat a vase of fresh flowers and against the wall to the left was a bed covered in a patchwork coverlet. Next to the bed stood a walnut vanity with a mirror. Yellow gingham curtains hung from the single window by the door.

  “Mr. Hendricks had it built after he agreed to let Gray and I get married. Since then, when husbands and wives visit from other plantations, they request the use of the cabin for some alone time.”

  I squirmed as it dawned on me that she was speaking of the lovemaking between a husband and a wife. “I would’ve been fine with bunking in one of the other cabins.”

  “Miss Willow would have none of that. It’s bothered her something awful to make you stay in the quarters instead of putting you up in the big house. This cabin’s the next best accommodations on the property, excluding the guesthouse, of course. Miss Willow wanted everything to be just so for your arrival. She about worked her fingers raw to make sure this cabin was suitable for you.” Mary Grace rushed on as if she needed to defend Willow’s honor.

  On our previous meeting at the café in New York, I’d witnessed the absolute devotion she possessed for her mistress and Willow’s high regard for her. Their sisterly bond and love signified an unnatural connection between a white woman and her handmaid. Assuredly, a danger for them both.

  How Willow managed to run Livingston and devote her time to the Underground Railroad and not have keeled over in exhaustion was beyond me.

  “She needed not worry about such things. New York may be a free state, but if you recall, segregation is very much alive. For the sake of Willow’s cause and all, she can’t afford to draw attention to Livingston, or herself.”

  Mary Grace’s bosom rose and fell with relief. “She’ll be happy to see you understand. Miss Whitney tried to convince her that you would, but you know Miss Willow when she has her mind made up—that’s it.” Her laugh was light and charming, whereas mine emerged like clapping thunder. “However, regardless of all that, we’ve waited with eager anticipation for your arrival.”

  “As have I.”

  She helped me slip into a peach-colored skirt and an ivory blouse. I ran my hands over the skirt, trying to smooth out some of the wrinkles. “It’ll have to do.”

  “No one will notice,” she said. “They’ll be so happy you’re here that a few wrinkles will be the last thing they care about.”

  I clasped her wrist and smiled, and moved to the vanity.

  “The vanity used to belong to Miss Willow’s mama. She had it brought down from the big house just for you.”

  In awe, I ran my hand over the exquisite piece of furniture. Love swelled in my heart for my friend and her efforts to make my stay as pleasant as possible.

  I sat down on the stool and peered into the looking glass. Gliding a hand over my hair, I tried to tame the unruly ball of fuzz capping my head. The dirt-smudged face of the lad staring back at me wiped out any self-confidence I may have earlier possessed.

  As if sensing my displeasure at my appearance, she said, “I know just the trick to fix your hair. I’ll be right back.” She turned, pulled her shawl up over her head, and hurried out into the downpour, closing the door behind her.

  Soon she returned with an ivory piece of cloth. “This cloth is spun right here at Livingston. If it’s all right with you, we could make you a head rag like mine.” Uncertainty wavered in her eyes.

  Around her full head of hair, she wore a cornflower blue cloth. I recalled the smoother, glossy appearance of her hair and how I’d marveled over it when she’d visited the café with Willow and Whitney. She’d worn it pinned up with a center part like all the fashionable ladies were wearing. It was a shame to hide hair like hers. Before I’d cut my hair, it’d scarcely been shoulder-length with a wooly texture. Beside her, I felt small and insignificant.

  “I’d be grateful. Would you help me?”

  She spun me around and swiftly her fingers went to work at concealing my hair beneath the cloth.

  “Take a look.” A pleased smile lifted her cheeks.

  I peered in the mirror, and my hand fluttered to my chest. The tightly wrapped head rag showcased my high forehead and my mahogany complexion. My spirit lifted, and I turned to her and pulled her into an embrace. “I can’t thank you enough.”

  “If you have a shawl in your trunk, I suggest you retrieve it, and we’ll be on our way.”

  Minutes later, under the poor shelter our shawls provided, we raced for the house.

  ENTERING THROUGH THE BACK DOOR, I followed her down a corridor that led to the front of the house. Excited voices carried from somewhere in the home.

  Mary Grace paused outside the room the voices floated out from, and whispered, “I’ll see you later.” Then she sauntered off.

  Left standing in the corridor, I eavesdropped on the conversation within. The happy chatter of children mixed with the gleeful voices of Willow and Whitney and a man’s I didn’t recognize. I heard Kipling’s merry voice as well.

  A servant with a rag and a bucket of water passed me in the hallway. She eyed me with curiosity before inclining her head. “Good day, miss.”

  I nodded and stared after her, wondering if her curiosity stemmed from my eavesdropping on her masters or from something else. Did she recognize me? Surely that was impossible, wasn’t it?

  Ruby Stewart, you’ve lost your mind! I could hear Papa say.

  I raised a hand and rubbed the weariness from my eyes.

  Taking a deep breath, I made my entrance. “Kipling has been talking like a lovestruck woman about this trip for months. Nothing would stop him from coming.”

  All eyes in the room turned to me. Their delighted expressions at my arrival were not mixed with surprise, and I guessed Kipling had informed them that I’d come after all.

  Kipling’s neck above his collar reddened, and a grin broke across his face. “Now don’t be telling Willow stories of my affections when she’s already spoken for.”

  I swallowed hard at his bold words. The bond he shared with Willow was profound, yet as complex as his and mine. The sooner I put my feelings to rest for Kipling, the better it was for all of us. Determination hardened in me to consciously dissolve the absurd sentiments once and for all. For the sake of our friendship I held so dear, I had to find a way to move past them. The image of a dark, smiling man with kind eyes sprang into my head, and I quickly pushed Saul Abraham from my mind.

  Willow plucked me from my thoughts. “I’m so happy you came.” She crossed the room and gathered me in a hug.

  The mess of thoughts in my head caused my body to stiffen in her embrace. I peered at Whitney over her shoulder, where she stood with her hands tucked in front of her, smiling.

  Willow pulled back, confusion in her eyes.

  Whitney strode toward me. “We’re pleased to have you,” she said, patting my arm.

  “Children, ple
ase go play,” Willow said to Whitney’s twin siblings.

  I looked at the blond girl and dark-haired boy. They’d grown since I’d seen them last.

  “Yes, Miss Willow,” they chimed, and dashed from the room.

  “Ruby, if you’ll follow me,” Willow said.

  We passed Mary Grace in the corridor. “I intend to hold the child you were carrying when you were in New York.” I told her.

  Mary Grace beamed and nodded her head with enthusiasm.

  Willow turned to me and took my hand in hers. Her forehead creased with worry. “There’s something I must speak to you about.”

  I glanced past her to a servant as he walked by. And for a moment, I wondered what my life would have been like if I’d been a slave.

  Willow murmured something I didn’t fully catch, and I mumbled a thoughtless reply as I took in my surroundings. Her chatter continued, and I heard myself offer an incoherent response as a male servant polishing the spiral staircase captured my attention.

  “Have I done something to displease you?” Willow waved a hand in front of my face.

  I pulled from my daze and became confused by her question. “What? No.”

  “You seem disconnected or upset,” she said.

  “It’s just…it’s…”

  “What is it?” She touched my arm.

  “Is there a place we can speak in private?”

  “Certainly.” She led me down the mahogany-paneled corridor to a closed door.

  Whitney’s footsteps echoed behind us.

  Willow opened the door and gestured for me to enter. I moved hesitantly inside.

  A portrait of a woman hanging over the marble-faced fireplace halted my steps. No! It couldn’t be. My heart beat faster. But the eyes. The dark hair. It was her! She was the woman who inhabited my dreams.

  Someone collided with me from behind, followed by another, and I stumbled forward from the impact, my eyes never leaving the portrait.

  “What in the name of—” Whitney said in exasperation.

  “The woman in the picture, who is she?” I said, regaining my balance.