Emily's Song

by Christine Marciniak

  “I’ll put some salve on your back,” Beck said, her voice tight and thin.

  “Wait!” Emily turned around to face Beck who had hastily pulled her own dress back up over her shoulders. “I should be helping you, not the other way around. You got hit more than once and without anything to soften the blow. Let me look at your back.”

  “No, miss.” Beck took a step back, looking horrified. “I can’t be letting you do that. You have to let me tend to you.”

  “I do not.” She grabbed at her own dress, which Beck had laid on the bed and struggled to get back into it. As she floundered amid yards of cotton, she finally sighed. “You can help me get this back on, though.”

  Beck did, without a word, and then Emily turned to her. “Let me see your back.”

  Beck’s eyes were hard and her mouth set in a thin line.

  “Why’d you steal the fork?”

  “Please let me put the salve on your back. I know it has to hurt.”

  “What do you know about it?” Beck spat the words out and turned her back in defiance.

  Emily could still feel the outlines of the lash on her back. “I think I know a little about it.” Suddenly she remembered telling Dayna that her ancestors had endured the Irish famine, as if that had in some ways equaled a life of slavery. Her one lash was not the same as knowing what Beck was going through, but she did know it had to hurt. “Just a little. Please let me help. I’ll tell you why I stole the fork if you let me help.”

  At that Beck capitulated and, still with reluctance, pulled her dress down over her shoulders, exposing her back. There had only been two strikes, but each had left a deep welt across her otherwise smooth back, breaking the skin in a place or two.

  “Sit.” She opened the jar of salve and braced herself against some strong medicinal scent, but the medicine had a pleasant peppermint smell. “This might sting,” she warned, “but I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

  Beck’s back muscles tensed as Emily gently worked the salve along the lines of the whip marks. While she worked she tried to think of what to tell Beck about the fork. The truth was the obvious thing, but could she trust her to keep a secret? Did it matter? And her own rash actions had caused Beck pain, the very least she could do was tell her why it had all happened.

  “I needed the fork to get home,” she said as she finished rubbing in the salve.

  “You needed the money?” Beck turned to look at her over her shoulder. “Surely Mister Sam would have given you money if you’d asked. He likes you. I know he does.”

  “Not the money.” She sighed and walked over to the basin and pitcher to rinse her hands off. Once they were relatively clean and dry she turned back to Beck, who had readjusted her dress, and sat, expectantly, waiting for her to continue. She had to tell her. But somehow saying the words out loud made it both too real and too ludicrous.

  She sat on the bed and twisted her fingers together, playing with the gold and silver ring that was now just gold.

  “I’m from the future.”

  Beck’s eyes narrowed, and her mouth formed a thin line above her hardened jaw. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but don’t treat me as if I’m dumb because I’m a slave.” She stood up and headed for the door. “Thank you for helping with my back.” The was no warmth in her tone.

  “Please. Wait!” Emily jumped off the bed and following her. “I don’t think you’re dumb. And I am telling you the truth. Please listen to me. I need someone to listen to me!”

  And that was it really, she realized with a sinking feeling. She wasn’t telling her because of any goodness of her heart, but because, selfishly, she needed someone to know. But was it fair to burden Beck with her secret?

  Beck turned to face her, and her features which had been hard and angry changed again to something bordering on compassion, her eyes showing a bit of warmth once again. “You can tell me.”

  Emily started quickly, not even moving from the middle of the room, wanting to get the story out before either one of them changed their minds. “I was at my friend’s wedding at a historic inn and there was a fishpond and I’d had too much to drink and I sat by the pond and then I fell in and when I got out of the water, I went back into the inn but nothing was the same only I didn’t realize that until later. And I’m not really sure what happened, but I think I fell over a hundred and fifty years into the past when I fell into the fishpond. And I have a ring. It used to be silver and gold, but the silver is gone. So I think I need to give an offering of silver to the pond to have it bring me back home. And I’m sure you don’t believe me, but it’s true, and that’s why I took the fork. And I never would have done it if I thought someone would get in trouble. Will you forgive me?” She ended in a rush.

  “So, it’s true,” Beck said, more to herself than anything else, a faraway dreamy look coming into her eyes.

  “You know something!” Emily grabbed her by the hand. “Tell me what you know!”

  Chapter Ten

  Sam

  Sam stood at the tall window in the study, hands behind his back, staring out across the fields, where the field hands were tending to the tobacco crop. How long before he had to leave? What would happen to the plantation while he was gone? What would war be like? Would he bring honor to himself, or would he disgrace himself? What if he was really a coward? He’d certainly rather write poetry than fire a gun at someone. Who was this woman Emily Parks, and what was her story? Would he ever know? Why had he agreed to marry Dinah? The impending marriage felt like a noose around his neck. He wished he were still back at University. Life was so much simpler then, not that he had thought so at the time.

  George came up behind him and held out a glass of whiskey. Sam took it eagerly.

  “You’re a million miles away,” George said. “What are you thinking about?”

  Sam shook his head. “Everything and nothing,” he answered turning away from the window to face his friend.

  “That girl, Emily, sure has spunk.” George laid a hand on his heart. “I think I’m in love with her.”

  “Love?” Sam almost choked on the word. “You?” She was his mystery girl. He’d found her in his bed. He could still picture those lovely breasts. So soft, so inviting. But he was engaged to Dinah. He didn’t know why he was, but he was. Emily could not be his. He wanted Emily. Which made no sense. He was going away. She was presumably going home, wherever that was. He couldn’t have Emily.

  “She’s pretty, and like I said, she has spunk. What’s not to like?”

  There was plenty to like, that wasn’t the question.

  “There’s something very mysterious about her.” Sam took a welcome sip of whiskey.

  “Isn’t that part of the allure? Something to discover,” George answered, eyes bright with excitement. “Take Dinah for instance. She’s all out in the open, nothing to hide, nothing new to discover. What you see is what you get. That’s fine for you, but I like a little mystery. I want to find out who this Emily is.”

  So do I, Sam thought. Oh, so do I.

  He leaned against the desk and sipped the whiskey. “What do you think her story is?”

  George shrugged. “I have no idea. She shows up out of nowhere, seems to have nowhere she belongs, keeps trying to throw herself in the pond, and takes a lash across the back trying to stop a whipping.”

  “Because she stole a fork.” Sam shook his head. “It doesn’t make sense. None of it.”

  “My grandmother would probably say she was of the fairy folk and throw some holy water at her for good measure.”

  A shiver went up his back.

  “You don’t think she could be, do you?” He had never believed in fairy stories, at least not once he was in long pants, but it would be an explanation for Emily’s presence here.

  “No, I don’t.” George clapped him on the shoulder. “And neither do you. There’s obviously a simple answer to all of it. We just don’t know what it is yet. But I aim to find out.”

  “How are you g
oing to do that?”

  “I’m going to ask her.” He grinned at his own brilliance. “I’m going to invite her for a drive and ask her. Can you think of a better way?”

  Sam couldn’t, and he wished he’d thought of it first.

  “If she wouldn’t tell us before, what makes you think you can get her to tell you now?”

  “I can be very persuasive if I need to be.” George brushed his fingernails along the lapel of his coat. “And a bottle of wine won’t hurt, don’t you think?”

  “You’re not to get her drunk and take advantage of her!” Sam said sharply.

  “Hey! I’m a gentleman through and through.” George held up his hands in protest.

  Sam knew that. He would never question George’s integrity with any girl, not even Elizabeth, so why did he feel so fiercely protective of Emily? It was because she had shown up in his bed. He felt a certain possessiveness over her. But surely no harm would come to her if she were to go on a drive with George. So why did he resist they idea so much? He didn’t want Emily to go riding with George. He wanted her to go riding with him.

  He was jealous.

  He had no right to be jealous. He was going to marry Dinah, and he had no claim whatsoever on Miss Emily Parks. Whoever she might be. And however intriguing she might be.

  “So, should I ask her for a ride this afternoon, do you think?” George was suddenly his normal uncertain self.

  He shook his head. “No. I’m sure she’s been traumatized by being whipped. Give her time to recover.”

  “What are you going to do about Wilkins?”

  He turned back to the window. The slaves worked tirelessly, all under the supervision of Wilkins. He made things run here in a way that Sam was sure he could not if he had to do it himself. And he couldn’t do it himself. He was leaving for war. He couldn’t leave it all up to his father, he was old. His shoulders slumped. “I don’t know.”

  “You can’t have overseers whipping white women.” George put his glass down on the sideboard and opened the bottle of whiskey. “It just isn’t done.”

  “I know.” Sam held his glass out to George. He could do with a refill. “But he didn’t do it intentionally. She got in his way.”

  “Still. I think you have to do something about him.”

  George was right. Wilkins worked for him, and that lapse was inexcusable. Something would have to be done.

  He rang the bell he kept on his desk and presently a small black child appeared at the door, out of breath from running to answer the summons.

  “Yes, suh?” He took a deep ragged breath. “What do you need, suh?”

  “I need you to find Tobias and send him to me at once.” He thought briefly of simply having the child fetch Wilkins, but that would never do. Wilkins would not respect an order given to him in that way. He would respond to a summons sent through Tobias.

  The child scurried off, and George put his glass down on the sideboard.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Take the lash to Wilkin’s back.” Sam drained his glass. He really wanted this day to be over. “Fair is fair, after all.”

  George nodded, but said, “He’s not going to like it.”

  “I don’t suspect he will, but as you said, I can’t let this go unanswered.”

  “He’ll take it out on your slaves.”

  “He wouldn’t dare. Not as long as I’m here.” Sam hoped he wielded that much authority with Wilkins. He was his father’s hire; he might not think that Sam had any power over him.

  “That’s just it,” George pointed out. “You won’t be here much longer.”

  Damn. He kept forgetting.

  “Regardless, the punishment seems fair.”

  Tobias came to the doorway. “You sent for me, sir?”

  “Please let Mr. Wilkins know I wish to see him.”

  “Here, sir?”

  No. That wouldn’t do. The transgression had been public. The punishment should be as well.

  “By the barn.” Sam put his empty glass down. He would not refill it as much as he might like to. “I will be there momentarily.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sam took his jacket from the coat rack and slipped it on.

  “Coming?”

  George still stood by the sideboard, making no move to put on his own jacket.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t do this publicly.”

  Maybe he shouldn’t, but what choice did he really have?

  “All whippings are public. Isn’t that the point?”

  “I always thought the pain was the point.” George reached for his jacket.

  “That and to discourage others from misbehaving.” Sam held the door open, ready to be done with this.

  “You have no other overseer.”

  He made a noise that was almost like a snort. He hated when George was right about things, but he still didn’t see any other way to proceed. “I’m not whipping him in the study. Behind the barn will do quite well. And I won’t invite everyone to watch. It will be private enough, most of the darkies are busy working.”

  “Have you thought this through?” George asked as he followed him from the study.

  “You’re the one who said I had to do something!” He said through clenched teeth and ran a hand over his face. “Do you have a better idea?”

  “No, I don’t. Especially since you can’t fire him.” George clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Though you whip him he might quit.”

  “Only one lash.” He lengthened his stride. He wanted this over with. Maybe this wasn’t the right solution. But Wilkins had hit a white woman. Something had to be done. He squared his shoulders. He would do what he had to. They reached the area behind the barn where Wilkins usually whipped recalcitrant slaves. Wilkins had not arrived yet. Sam wasn’t sure how far Tobias would have to go to track him down. He went into the stables and took his riding crop from the wall.

  “You want me to saddle up Echo?” Old Moses paused in raking out a stall to ask.

  “No, thank you. I’m not going anywhere at the moment.” He didn’t explain what he needed the riding crop for. He owed no one explanations.

  Back out across the packed dirt yard to where George waited. He felt the heft of the crop in his hand and tried to imagine what it would be like to feel its lash across his back. His muscles tensed in anticipation of a blow he knew was not going to come.

  “I’ve never hit a man before,” he said to George.

  “What are you talking about? You’ve pummeled me black and blue on more than one occasion.”

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You gave as good as you got, but that’s not what I mean. I mean, deliberately, with a whip.”

  “Never?” George’s eyes widened and his voice came out an octave above where it normally was.

  “Have you?” Sam narrowed his eyes and studied his friend. He didn’t think George had, but what if everyone else did this on a normal basis, and he was here with knots in his stomach at the idea. What kind of a man did that make him?

  George hesitated before answering. “No.” After a thoughtful pause he continued. “I wonder if I’ll make a very good soldier?”

  He had wondered the same thing. He couldn’t sleep nights wondering that. “I imagine we’ll be able to do what we have to when the time comes.”

  “I hope so.” George scuffed his toes in the dirt like an insecure child.

  Wilkins rounded the corner of the barn then, trailed by Tobias. His face was stormy, and he snatched his cloth cap off his head in an angry motion when he saw Sam.

  “What’s this about then that you send your boy to fetch me like I’m some pup. Your father treated me with respect.”

  Tobias, behind Wilkins, bristled at the words, but said nothing.

  Sam stood tall, shoulders squared, feet apart to give him balance. With careful carelessness he let the riding crop brush against his leg in a rhythmic motion.

  Wilkins’ eyes went from the crop to Sam’s face. “What’s th
is all about then?” He didn’t lose any of his belligerence.

  “You whipped a white woman.” He kept his voice firm and even, although he felt like any moment he was going to get called on the carpet for confronting his father’s overseer.

  “The interfering wench got in my way. Someone stands in front of a moving whip deserves what they get.”

  Sam swallowed a burst of anger, but at the same time part of him acknowledged that Wilkins was right. “I can’t let it go unsanctioned.”

  “Sure you can.” Wilkins faced Sam with his legs wide and his arms crossed. He was clearly not backing down. “You and I both know that I only hit her because she ran under my arm. No one could have avoided doing what I did.”

  Sam let his glance drift to George who gave a half-shrug.

  Perhaps a stiff talking to was enough of a sanction.

  “You planning on whipping me?” Wilkins eyes narrowed, and there was an ugly twist to his mouth.

  When he had imagined this scene, he had figured that Wilkins would ask that question with fear and trepidation not scorn.

  “You can’t whip me.” There was nothing false about his bravado.

  Sam tapped the riding crop against his pant leg. Part of him agreed with Wilkins and part of him, a part that grew by the minute, wanted to beat the crap out of him.

  “I could fire you.”

  “And who would you get to run your farm? Everyone’s going off to war.”

  He took a step toward Wilkins. “You laid hands on a white woman. A guest of this house. You must answer for it.”

  Wilkins held up both hands, but not in a way that could ever be considered conciliatory. “She got in the way of me doing my job, and you want to punish me. I believe you are thinking with your pants, young man and not your head.”

  He didn’t think. He lunged toward Wilkins, whip in hand. He brought the lash down, missing his head only by the fact that Wilkins managed to duck out of the way. The lash landed hard on Wilkins’ shoulder. Sam felt the reverberations in his own arm.