“Why, you’ve just described half the men in the South!”
Lizzie simply plucked the hat from Emily’s head and set it carefully in its box.
Emily narrowed her eyes. “I don’t think it’s Mr. Black that’s bothering you nearly as much as my bending a few rules.”
“Proper ladies don’ gallivant in de streets,” Lizzie grumbled.
“I thought so.” Emily smiled at her maid fondly. “I do appreciate the way you look out for me, Lizzie, but I’m really not interested in a relationship.” Her lip curled mischievously. “But you favor someone. Is Jeremiah your beau?”
Lizzie cut her eyes at her mistress.
“Are you sure it isn’t Ketch?” Since hearing the man’s story, he’d often come to mind.
Lizzie crossed her arms.
“What about Coffey?”
“Miss Emily, you ain’t gunna wheedle nothin’ outta me, so you might as well stop askin’.”
Emily smirked. “If I stop, will you admit that Thaddeus Black is extremely handsome and dashing?”
“I don’ have to admit nothin’.”
“Oh, all right,” Emily pretended to pout. “Then tell me a story. We have an hour before my father’s due home, and I want to forget what we just saw.”
Lizzie gazed at her soberly. “Miss Emily, ain’t no story gunna erase dat memory.”
“It will be a distraction, anyway. Tell me a story like you used to when we were little.” They’d grown up like sisters, romping over the estate together, inventing games, snatching bites of food from under Josephine’s nose, even sleeping in a heap beneath Lizzie’s blanket. On those nights, Lizzie always shared folk tales from the African continent.
“Ain’t you gettin’ too old fo’ all dat?”
“I’m not if you’re not.” Emily slid over and patted the empty space on the bed.
Her maid didn’t move. “I ain’t allowed to sit. You know dat.”
“My mother will never find out. Tell me the one about the ’nasasak bird and the odudu bird. It’s always been my favorite.”
Lizzie relaxed. “I ’member.”
“You look ten years younger when you smile.”
“We de same age,” Lizzie reminded her.
“Sometimes when you get to scolding me, I forget.”
“You usually need scolding.”
“You used to need it too. Now you’re a junior Deena. What happened?”
“We grew up.”
Emily remembered their resistance when her parents first began insisting that she sleep in a real bed while Lizzie remained on the floor in a corner of her room. Meals were taken apart, and their leisure dried up in favor of chores and studies. Emily was compelled to become a proper young lady with Lizzie to wait on her. In time, they’d slipped into their roles of servant and mistress, but at moments like this, Emily missed those uncomplicated childhood days.
“At least I don’ look like Deena yet,” Lizzie said, holding her hands out to indicate the woman’s substantial girth.
Emily laughed, and Lizzie settled cross-legged on the floor. Emily joined her there, listening raptly as the colored girl began her tale about the tiny bird who outsmarted the larger one. Emily knew they would revert back to slave and mistress. They had to. But for the moment, they could forget.
The tale wound to its conclusion. “How’d you learn all those stories?” Emily asked. “You were born in America.”
“Lewis told them to me.”
“Lewis?” Emily asked in surprise.
“His daddy come from Africa. In the evenin’, Lewis used to gather de slave chil’ren and tell us stories so dey won’t be forgotten.” Lizzie smiled at the memory. “And afterward, I tol’ ’em to you.”
“Nighttime was the only time any of us sat still.” Emily laughed. “Remember how you could beat my brother at footraces?” Their childhood involved many contests of skill: throwing, climbing, leaping, running. Jack usually won. Or Herod. But by the time the girls were nine years old, Lizzie could outrun every child on the estate, even the ones several years older. “It always put Jack so out of sorts. I used to love initiating those races.”
Lizzie smiled, her eyes soft with memory. “We come a long way from dose two little girls, ain’t we, Miss Emily?”
***
Three days later, Emily found herself seated in the dining room with Jack, Aunt Margaret, and her father. Betsy had laid out a light supper of turtle soup and bread, jellies, dried figs, and sweet potato pie.
“Have you enjoyed your stay in Charleston, sweetheart?” William asked his daughter.
She glanced accusingly over the rim of a crystal goblet. “It would have been more enjoyable if I could have accompanied you into the city.”
“Yes, well, once Lincoln won the election, it couldn’t be helped,” he apologized. “But we did manage to enjoy a fine picnic and a horseback ride around Sullivan’s Island today,” he reminded her.
She groaned. “After a morning spent figuring price per pound, profit, loss, sales tax, tonnage, and every other mathematical formula known to man.”
“You wanted a look at how business is conducted.” William laughed. “Don’t forget, we also took one of the first rides on the new railway.”
She had enjoyed yesterday’s hour-long journey along the Savannah line. They had disembarked in Rantowles and eaten lunch at a café overlooking the Stono River, near the site of the terrible slave rebellion that occurred more than a century before.
“And you had tea in some of the finest parlors in Charleston,” Aunt Margaret protested.
“You’ve been a dear, Auntie,” Emily relented, wrinkling her nose apologetically. She hadn’t meant to make the old woman feel bad. Aunt Margaret wasn’t terrible company, for an old lady.
“While you were enjoying the sights,” Jack grimaced, “others among us spent the week in the library researching the social issues of the Middle Ages that led to the drafting of the Magna Carta.”
William laughed at his son’s misfortune. “A noble and worthy pursuit.”
“You seem more relaxed than I’ve seen you in months,” Jack observed. “Now that I’ve come out of my burrow, catch me up on the fervor gripping the city.” He popped a fig into his mouth. “I’ve heard rumor of a slew of resignations, but probably only bits and pieces of truth.”
William ripped off a bite-sized piece of bread and spread it with grape jelly. “The legislature called for a December secession convention. We’re to vote on delegates in a few weeks.”
Jack whistled, his eyes round. “That happened quickly. And you’re happy about this?”
“I had no desire to see South Carolina stick her neck in a noose, you can be sure. But when Georgia pledged their support…” He shrugged.
“Shoo-wee!” Jack slapped the table. “Georgia’s in?”
“Not officially,” William warned. “But we heard plenty of assurances from the Savannah bigwigs at the railroad gala over the weekend. They stirred up the crowd to such a pitch that a telegraph was sent to Columbia forthwith, demanding a convention at the earliest convenience.”
Emily froze with a spoon held halfway to her lips. She was listening to her father utter her worst fears. Georgia’s reassurances did little to allay them.
Jack chuckled delightedly. “We’ll have a revolution for Christmas.”
“It won’t take as long as all that.” Aunt Margaret snorted. “Half the city is shut down already.”
Emily and Jack turned questioning eyes to their father.
“The fervor is catching, I suppose,” he said. “Judge Magrath closed the federal courthouse. The district attorney resigned. The U. S. marshall resigned. The customs collector resigned. And both of our senators resigned.”
Emily set down her spoon with a clatter. “They’ll come here,” she said in a small voice. “The North will come with their armies.”
William shook his head with a smug smile. “They can’t. We have initiated a revolution with no smell of the street. No
excesses, no mobs, and no laws broken. A perfect coup. South Carolina opted into the Union. We are well within our sovereign rights to leave it.”
“Do you really believe they’ll let us go without argument?”
“Let them argue,” Jack scoffed. “They can’t do anything.”
William agreed. “With Georgia’s support, Alabama, Mississippi, Florida, and Louisiana will fall in line. Lincoln will think twice about initiating hostilities against such a block.”
Emily picked up her spoon and dipped it into her soup, but her hand shook so badly she set it down again.
“There is little danger, Emily,” William reassured. “I was more afraid that in our caution we might dally too long and give the president time to build a Southern Republican party against us right in our own backyard.”
“He wouldn’t have succeeded,” Jack countered. “We are not a state of turncoats.”
“He could have appointed them—judges, postmasters, ministers of commerce and agriculture and such.”
“We would have run them out of town.”
“And given the North cause to invade us. Immediacy suits our purpose far better. With no crime committed and solidarity between the Southern states, Washington will not rush to take action.”
Emily knew her state wasn’t blameless. She had already heard her fill of unlawful activity. She’d seen it with her own eyes. Over the past few days, she had often wondered how Widow Harris and her son fared. She clutched her hands together to stop their trembling and blurted out, “Who is Sarah Grimké?”
The room fell still. “Where did you hear that name?” William asked in an ominously quiet voice.
“I—” she blundered, taken aback. “I overheard it in the street…on our way to—”
“We will not discuss that woman in this house.”
Just that quickly, the room resembled a Michigan winter. Her father’s icy tone froze the soup halfway down her esophagus. Even the chink of china sounded brittle. Apparently, she’d have to write to Uncle Isaac to learn about Sarah Grimké.
“So, um, Jack,” she floundered, grasping for anything to warm the silence. “Tell me about your friend Thaddeus Black.”
Jack looked up in surprise. “I thought you disliked him.”
“I never said that.”
Half of his lip pulled up in amusement. “You certainly gave that impression.”
Emily scowled, though she was relieved that the ice in the room had begun to thaw. “His manners are appalling, but I’d rather discuss him than a looming war.”
Jack was grinning openly now. “So, what do you want to know? How much he stands to inherit? His father’s net worth?”
“Oh, never mind,” she said with disgust. “I thought I saw him in the street and was curious, that’s all.”
“You saw him? Where?”
She’d done it again. “I—I don’t remember. He was probably on his way to one of these political meetings.”
“I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem to have much of a head for politics.”
“Why do you say that?”
He shrugged. “He never has much to add when discussions crop up.”
“Maybe South Carolina’s actions don’t concern him.”
“It concerns every blue-blooded Southerner who’s tired of being run over by Washington,” he shot back.
Emily rolled her eyes. “Not this again.”
“Children,” William broke in. “Let’s try to enjoy our last evening in Charleston.”
“Our last evening? I thought you were staying here and sending me home.”
“I’ve changed my mind. The convention date has been set. I’m no longer needed here, and my business is concluded. I’ve already sent the schooner on ahead. We will take the train home tomorrow morning.”
“If I wasn’t heading off to the West Indies, I’d ask you to stay on with me, dear,” Aunt Margaret said. “I’ve enjoyed your visit immensely.”
“Where are you going, Margaret?” William asked.
“To St. Kitts. Mr. Thornton, God rest his soul, had family there. They made out handsomely in the sugar industry. Till Parliament manumitted the slaves, that is. Completely wrecked the island economy. You’d think Washington would take note, wouldn’t you?”
“Emancipation is not a viable option,” William agreed.
“But breaking with the Union is?” Emily muttered.
“That horse is dead, Emily,” Jack snapped. “Stop beating it.”
She stared at him hard. “We’re going to start a war, Jack. A war.”
Aunt Margaret prattled on as if she were the only one talking. “My husband’s kinfolk held onto their land, however, and they’ve invited me to stay for the winter months.”
“You have the courage of a kitten,” Jack sneered. “Why are you so afraid of conflict?”
“Because war means people will die.”
“St. Kitts sounds lovely, Margaret,” William said, his voice rising in an obvious attempt to silence his children. “I’d like to take Marie there someday.”
“Not war. A show of force,” Jack put in. “There’s a difference.”
“Guns. Death. There is no difference.”
“You would love it,” Aunt Margaret declared. “Now that hurricane season is past, I can’t think of a lovelier place to spend the holidays.”
“War is prolonged,” Jack argued. “The North will not stick out a long war. They’ll let us go.”
“Do you want us all to die?” Emily asked.
“Why do you exaggerate everything?” Jack asked, rising from his seat. “You don’t know the first thing about politics…or business…or war. Yet you continually stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Enough!” William shouted.
Emily bit off her retort. Jack sat down. Aunt Margaret grinned and took a last bite of pie.
“We don’t know that it will come to conflict. We don’t even know that Secession will pass. This conversation is premature, and it’s gotten out of hand.” William glared first at Emily, then at Jack. “Margaret, I apologize for my children’s behavior.”
“Nonsense. I haven’t had this much fun in ages.” She dabbed at her mouth and rose from the table. “But it is time I depart. I have packing to supervise and details to attend before my trip. Emily, dear, thank you for a very entertaining week.” She donned her coat and hat—another eye-popping creation with more feathers than a goose—and departed with kisses and pinched cheeks all around.
When she had gone, William glanced from his pocket watch to both of his children. “I would enjoy a walk by the waterfront. Would either of you care to join me for a stroll around White Point Garden?”
“Of course, Father,” Emily conceded.
Jack glanced between the two of them. “As stimulating as further conversation promises to be,” he drawled, “I have a substantial essay due in the morning.”
They walked him to the door and saw him on his way. The evening had grown dark, and a chill sharpened the air. Emily wrapped her shawl more snugly about her shoulders.
“So, how was your week with my sister, really?” her father asked, shrugging on a light cloak and placing a top hat upon his head.
“I drank enough tea to float a ship and heard enough gossip to sink it.” She grimaced.
He laughed. “When spring arrives, you’ll be able to spend more time with people your own age.”
He tucked Emily’s hand into the crook of his arm and set off down the sidewalk. The bells of St. Michael’s sounded out the slave curfew just as the battery gardens came into view. “You received many visitors following your birthday party,” he said as he guided her down one of the paths. “Will we be seeing any of your gentlemen callers again?”
Emily hesitated. Her answer would prompt questions she wasn’t certain she was ready for. “I hope not, Pa.”
“You hope not? None of the gentlemen suited your fancy?”
“They were all very nice,” she hedged, unwilling to admit s
he had received very few of them. “It’s just—I’m not ready to marry.”
“No one is forcing you out of the house this season, my dear.” He turned to stroll along the waterfront. Beside them the harbor lay black and glittering, a field of obsidian. “You have several years before anyone would consider you an old maid. Take your time and find the right fellow.”
Emily bit her lip, waited for a couple to stroll past, and forced herself to continue. “No, Pa, you don’t understand. I don’t want to pursue marriage.”
“You can’t live at Ella Wood forever. You’ll want your own home and family.”
“Someday, yes. But there are other things I want first.”
William turned to face his daughter. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”
She took a deep breath. “I want to attend art school.” There. She’d said it. And even in the pale light of the moon, she could see the stunned expression on her father’s face.
She rushed to explain. “The Maryland Institute recently opened its new School of Design to women. Father, this is something I’m good at, something I’m passionate about. But if I’m to improve my skills, I need instruction beyond parlor lessons. I want to study under professional artists.”
She could see the muscles working in his jaw. “Absolutely not,” he answered when he could form the words. “Women do not belong at institutes of higher learning.”
“Why not? You saw fit to give me an education equal to Jack’s at home.”
“At home.” His face burned with a rosy light. “That’s the difference. That’s where young women belong—under the care of their father or a husband, not gallivanting about the countryside.”
“Studying under an organized program is hardly gallivanting, Father. I simply want the opportunity to better myself as Jack is doing.”
“Jack is a man.”
“And I am a woman. Does that mean I am not entitled to interests of my own?”
“A woman is to mind her home and raise a family.”
“While men are at liberty to gallivant,” she added bitterly.
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