Ella Wood (Ella Wood, 1)

by Michelle Isenhoff

  A soft knock sounded on her bedroom door. She was tempted to feign sleep and ignore the summons, but her father’s voice whispered, “Emily, are you still awake?”

  Sitting up in bed, she pulled a dressing gown over her nightclothes. “Come in, Papa.”

  The door opened and an applique of golden candlelight adhered to the hardwood floor. Marie glided ahead of her husband to rest a cool hand on Emily’s forehead. “We just wanted to check on you before we retire.”

  “And give you this.” William held out a brown paper package tied with colored ribbon. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

  Emily took the rectangular gift. It rested heavily in her hands. Peeling off the wrapping, she uncovered a book with a golden cover that sparkled in the dim light—Paradise and the Peri, by Thomas Moore.

  “I sent for it from London,” her father explained. “I realize you outgrew picture books a long time ago, but this one was made with a new technique called chromolithography. Every single page is printed in full color.”

  She let the book fall open to a random image of an angel in pale pink robes weeping among a starry host inked the most brilliant shade of blue. “It’s beautiful!” she gasped, thumbing through several more pages. Each one featured bold patterns and eye-popping colors—crimson, avocado, cerulean, and gold.

  “We thought you’d like it.” Marie caught her daughter’s hair and lifted it away from her downturned face.

  Emily looked up with sparkling eyes. “Thank you.”

  Her parents each kissed her cheek. “Get some sleep,” her father said. Then they retreated, taking the candle with them.

  Moonlight shimmered on the gilt cloth of the cover. Emily ran a hand over it admiringly, knowing she could not sleep till she had explored its pages more thoroughly. Lighting an oil lamp, she opened the book reverently and pored over images that nearly overwhelmed her eyes.

  Her parents had long known of her fascination for art. As a young child, Emily would stare for hours at the priceless oil paintings gracing the walls of their home and attempt to copy them. Marie had framed several of her best works to hang alongside the masterpieces. The contrast was obvious, but rather than growing discouraged, Emily warmed with pride at her mother’s encouragement and tried harder with each new attempt.

  The year she turned eight, William had taken her on a special outing, just the two of them, to an Exhibition at the Maryland Institute for the Promotion of Mechanic Arts. Emily remembered how fascinated she’d been by the variety of entries—quilts, leatherwork, wood engravings, perfumes, agricultural products, lithography, furniture, photography, metal work, machinery... It seemed that anything capable of manufacture had been represented. But her favorite had been the fine arts, particularly the paintings. Over the years, her father fed her interest by supplying pigments and paper, literature about the great masters, and even two summers’ worth of watercolor lessons with Widow Harris, the cobbler’s mother. He considered the arts a proper pastime for a young girl growing into womanhood, especially as it soothed her boisterous nature.

  He had no idea she planned to pursue it professionally.

  Emily’s hands dampened at the thought of revealing her secret. Southern women managed the household and bore children. They did not pursue employment. They rarely left the home. Though William had provided a liberal education for his daughter, training her in all the same subjects as his son, it was always with a mind to her eventual marriage. Higher education? Independence? He was certain to disapprove.

  She closed the book’s cover and set it gently on her bedside table. Then she turned down the light and cozied under her blankets. Her secret would have to wait awhile longer.

  When Lizzie woke her the next morning, light was streaming through her bedroom window. “What time is it?” Emily asked, blinking against the glare.

  “Ten o’clock. You to be at table in half an hour. Missus ordered a late breakfast.”

  Emily stretched luxuriously. Only when she’d been bedridden with measles or influenza could she remember skipping church on a Sunday morning. “Is someone ill?”

  Lizzie shook her head and set a full pitcher of water in the basin on Emily’s bureau. “Yo’ pa made allowance on account of de late evenin’ and you almost gettin’ dragged off las’ night. ’Sides, we got company.”

  Emily frowned as her memory returned. “Were the attackers found?”

  “Not a trace.”

  “Did Jack return?”

  “He downstairs.”

  “And his friend?”

  “He still here, too.”

  Emily had expended a great deal of energy the night before trying to get both young men out of her head. Jack’s words and behavior filled her with apprehension. And Thaddeus? She scowled. When her indignation had finally burned away, she’d grown angry with herself for letting her thoughts linger on him. How on earth was she supposed to act with both of them sitting across the table from her, and with friends from Charleston looking on?

  Emily dawdled as long as she dared. After washing, she spent ten minutes picking out a dress. Then she kicked one of her shoes under her bed and pretended to hunt for it. She finally ran out of excuses and dragged herself toward the dining room, reticence clutching at both ankles.

  Zeke met her on the stairs. “Good mornin’, Miss Emily.” He pushed a silver tray toward her. It held a small rectangular card that she picked up and read.

  Miss Emily Preston,

  Please accept my apologies for a string of poor behavior. My best wishes for your health.

  Sincerely,

  Thaddeus Black

  Her fist tightened around the card, crushing it into a ball before dropping it back onto the tray. Every muscle went rigid, her body braced as if awaiting the slap of a ruler. “Please give my apologies to my parents, Zeke,” she said, turning around on the stairs. “I haven’t grace enough to encounter this young man at the moment.”

  “He gone, miss,” Zeke replied.

  She paused. “What?”

  “He an’ Jack left fo’ Charleston a few minutes ago.”

  The stiff set of her shoulders relaxed, and she breathed a grateful sigh. “In that case, I will join my parents.”

  “Very good, miss.”

  Descending the stairs, she made her way to the wood-paneled dining room. It hummed with dialogue and the gentle clatter of tableware. Twenty people could repose at the table comfortably. More than half the seats were filled.

  William presided at the head. “You’re late,” he reprimanded.

  “I’m sorry, Papa. My thoughts would not put themselves in order this morning. If not for Lizzie, I’d still be sitting at my window with a hairbrush in my hand.”

  He relented with a gentle nod.

  Emily strode past the crackling fireplace to an empty seat near the foot of the table as Zeke flicked the crumpled calling card into the blaze. Then he filled her plate with ham, grits, buttered toast, and a single poached egg.

  “Did you enjoy your party, dear?” Mrs. Ingersoll sat beside Emily. Her husband, the Charleston jeweler, sat across from them.

  “I did. Thank you.” Emily peeked around the woman to smile at Abigail Malone. She hadn’t spent much time with the girl but thought they could become friends if given the chance. She often wished she had more opportunity to socialize with girls her own age, especially now that Sophia had moved away.

  “It’s a shame your brother had to leave so early.” Mrs. Malone sipped from her cup of tea. “A house always seems a bit dull after a gathering.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” Marie agreed. “And we never had the opportunity to get to know his guest.”

  “You heard Jack,” William said. “He has a philosophy examination he needs to study for. I’m sure he’ll bring his friend another time.”

  Emily snorted and covered the sound with a dainty cough. She didn’t believe for a second that Jack had returned for schoolwork.

  “Is he maintaining high marks at that college of his?” Dr.
Malone asked.

  “The highest,” William assured him.

  The doctor nodded sagely. “He always was an intelligent boy. I assumed he was staying in your town house, but it appeared vacant when I drove by last week.”

  “He opted for a flat near the campus this term.”

  “Did he now?” the doctor asked. “Well, I suppose he’d make the same arrangement if he’d studied in England.”

  Emily wondered if the man saw how intently his daughter followed the conversation when Jack was the subject.

  “Why did he choose the College of Charleston anyway?” Mr. Ingersoll asked as the doctor paused to fork a bite of egg into his mouth. “I thought he had his heart set on Oxford.”

  “He did, but something changed his mind.” William shrugged. “One day his defense of staying became even more adamant than his old arguments for studying abroad.”

  “He never does anything halfway,” Dr. Malone mused.

  “He’d be the third generation at Oxford, but he turned his education into a personal test of patriotism,” William added. “I guess one can’t argue with that.”

  “Not at a time like this,” Dr. Malone agreed. “You’ve been in the thick of politics. What do you think will happen if Breckenridge fails to win next week’s election?”

  All eyes fastened on her father. William set down his fork and dabbed at his lips with a napkin. “Let’s just say it’s crucial that he win.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” Marie asked. Two vertical lines etched themselves into the skin between her eyes.

  William reached out to squeeze his wife’s hand, his face easing into a confident smile. “Then we’ll just take the next four years one day at a time.” He pushed his empty plate back and effectively ended the line of questioning. “Zeke, I’ll take a cup of coffee, please. Would anyone else care for one?”

  Several of the guests answered in the affirmative. Emily breathed in the rich, evocative aroma and watched as the butler poured each cup. The beverage contoured inside like ripples of mahogany silk. “I’d like to try a cup, Zeke.” She was sixteen now, after all.

  He handed her the next one. She nudged her face into the cloud of vapor and took a tentative sip. The hot, bitter flavor bit at her tongue. She wrinkled her nose. The expression sent a ripple of quiet laughter around the table.

  Zeke chuckled and stirred in a dollop of cream and two spoons of sugar, lightening the coffee to the shade of toasted hazelnuts. She took another sip—much better—and watched him serve two more guests. His hands, she noticed, trembled with age, and the tiny hairs covering them had grown as white as the wool on his head.

  The conversation wound down with the completion of the meal. Soon, each family of guests politely excused themselves to begin packing for the train ride back to the city that would consume several hours of their day.

  “Deena!” William called to a large-bodied old woman who hovered solicitously in the hallway.

  She ambled into the room. “Yes, Marse William?”

  “See that our guests are well tended. Zeke will send up some men to carry down their luggage.”

  Deena curtsied. “Yes, Marse William.” Her ponderous tread sounded loudly on the wood floor, and her gruff voice rolled faintly back into the dining room. “Celia, Phoebe, round up de res’ of de maids and get upstairs. Quickly now. An’ straighten up, Lottie, or I’ll take a stick to yo’ backside.”

  Emily muffled a snicker. The old woman had nursed two generations of Preston children and was the undisputed matriarch among the slaves. Now that her youngest charge was approaching adulthood, she tended to butt into other areas of authority, usurping butler and cook and especially Celia, the housekeeper.

  William rose to lean against the fireplace mantel as the footmen began gathering dishes and carrying them out to the kitchen. Of all the diners, only the family remained. “Shall I send someone to fetch yo’ pipe, Marse William?” Zeke asked.

  “Thank you, Zeke. I would appreciate that.”

  A servant was dispatched. When the pipe arrived, William filled it from a tin of tobacco kept on the mantel shelf and soon stood encircled in a cloud of the sweet-smelling smoke. It lent him a certain dignity, Emily thought, like a rocky peak wreathed in cloud.

  “I’ll be taking a load of rice into town soon,” he announced, addressing his wife. “I expect you’ll need me to purchase some items in Charleston?”

  “I’ve already begun inventorying,” she answered. “I’ll have a list ready for you.”

  “Will you be gone long?” Emily asked. She popped in her last bite of toast and licked the jelly from her fingers, incurring a frown of disapproval from her mother.

  “Only a few days.”

  “May I go with you?”

  “You just spent all summer in Charleston,” William said with some surprise. “Are you so eager to return?”

  “It sounds like an adventure.” In truth, Emily had grown tired of the confines of the town house, but she was lured by the prospect of time spent alone with her father. Now that she was of age, perhaps she could accompany him to more entertaining venues than just the four walls of the house.

  “Mercy, child,” Marie exclaimed. “The schooner is no place for a young lady. With the river crews and the dockhands—”

  “Father would be with me.”

  William crossed his feet and leaned a shoulder against the mantel. “Well now, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt for you to see sums and figures in action.” He nodded decisively. “I’ll send word to Margaret. If she is willing to act as chaperone in the event of my absence, I’ll take you to Charleston with me.”

  Aunt Margaret was twenty years her father’s senior. Emily had spent several holidays with the stuffy old widow and didn’t fancy her company, but maybe it wouldn’t come to that. She flashed her father a grin. “Thank you, Papa.”

  Marie’s lips stiffened slightly, but she didn’t argue. “When will you be leaving?”

  “I’ll remain home long enough to vote, then depart for Charleston directly.”

  She nodded. “I’ll be ready.”

  Deena peered at them from the doorway with her hands pressed against her back. “Celia has de guests well in hand. If you don’ need me further, I’ll retire to some Sabbath quiltin’.”

  “We’re fine, Deena.” William nodded. “You’re free to go.”

  “You may help yourself to my scrap bag, if you’d like,” Marie added.

  “Thank you, Missus. I be visitin’ at Josephine’s should you need me.”

  The old woman hoisted the last tray of dishes. As she neared the door, Emily had a sudden inspiration. “Deena, would you mind so very much if I paint you while you sew?”

  “Course not, miss. But a tired ol’ woman don’ sound like a pretty picture to me.”

  Marie smiled proudly at her daughter. “You let Emily be the judge of that.”

  ***

  An hour later, Emily shifted her crate of paints and canvas to admit herself into the slave cabin. Before she touched the handle, Josephine opened the door. “Deena said you was comin’.” The spare woman didn’t sound inviting, but she stood aside for Emily to pass.

  Emily squinted to make out the tidy interior. Deena rocked in the light of the cabin’s single window, her needle methodically piecing scraps of fabric into squares while Josephine’s husband whittled a wooden spoon near the hearth. Shavings of wood curled in blond ringlets about his bare feet. His capable hands had fashioned all the furnishings in the room, including a double rope bed, two stacked bunks, a square table, and two short benches made from the split halves of a single log. “Good afternoon, Miss Emily,” he said. “Beautiful day outside, ain’t it? A bit o’ sunshine makes a man feel twenty years younger.”

  “You’re as spry as any man on this property, Lewis,” she answered, setting her crate down in the nearest corner. Lewis was her father’s best driver. Cheerful and forthright, both the black work teams and their white overseer respected him.

  Lewis ran a ha
nd down his thigh. “Kind o’ you to say so, miss, but dese ol’ bones tell me otherwise.”

  Deena snorted. “I’ll listen to such talk when you get to be old as me.”

  “Deena,” Lewis fired back, “ain’t nobody old as you.”

  The old woman burst into a round of cackling.

  “You both a couple o’ ol’ fools.” Josephine carried a basket of sweet potatoes to the table and began peeling off the skins. “Lewis, what’d you think o’ Sam’s preachin’ dis mornin’?”

  Most of Ella Wood’s slaves attended a chapel William had constructed on the premises. Whenever a traveling minister happened into the area, black and white would gather for the sermon. Lizzie once summarized the usual text: “Serve yo’ massah. Don’ steal yo’ massah’s turkey. Don’ steal yo’ massah’s chickens. Don’ steal yo’ massah’s hawgs. Do whatsomever yo’ massah tells you to do.” Emily almost snickered out loud recalling Lizzie’s recitation. But most Sundays, an old slave by the name of Samuel presided behind the chapel pulpit while Emily and her family trekked to a nearby Presbyterian congregation in Summerville.

  As Lewis enumerated the morning’s sermon points, Emily had the distinct impression he was being careful to include only the ideas that could safely find their way to her father’s ears. It was the same wall, the same curtain that fell elsewhere among the slave cabins, however subtle. She tuned him out as she faced her old nurse and focused on her painting.

  Deena rocked serenely, the light from the window catching her face and turning it into a study of contrast and texture. Watercolor would never do justice to such detail. Foregoing her paints, Emily sat down with a charcoal stick and began sketching in the old woman’s likeness.

  “Deena, did you hear what Emmaline Williams said to Celia after de service las’ week?” Josephine asked.

  Deena looked up with interest. “No.”

  “You know how Georgia Parker been flappin’ her wings for Ketch, de new field hand from over Berkley County way?”