Emily's Song

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Emily's Song Page 12

by Christine Marciniak


  She opened her eyes and saw Dayna holding a tea tray.

  Except it wasn’t. It was a woman about the same size and coloring, but wearing a long dress, her hair wrapped in a scarf.

  There was a canopy over the bed, and the windows were on the wrong side of the room.

  She was not at the Gordon’s.

  And then it all came back to her. It wasn’t a bad dream. It was reality.

  A bad reality.

  She closed her eyes tight, in the hope that when she opened them things would have changed and she would be in Dayna’s room and they would be in high school again and everything would be right with the world.

  “Miss Emily?” Beck said. “I’ve got tea and buns. Miss Elizabeth always likes something to eat before she puts on her corset.”

  Emily sighed. This was her reality now. At least until she knew how to fix it. As tempting as it was to burrow under the covers and cry, that wasn’t going to accomplish anything.

  She sat up, leaning against the tall headboard. She took the proffered cup of tea and sniffed it. There was a touch of lemon in the tea.

  “Thank you.”

  Beck put the tray down on the dressing table and pushed open the drapes so the room was bathed in sunlight. She came back to the bedside and looked around furtively as if she might be seen doing something wrong. “Did you talk to Moses?” she whispered. “Did you get answers?”

  Emily took a sip of the tea before answering. It was warm and soothing, and she kind of wished her real life included people who would bring her breakfast in bed. Then she remembered that Beck was a slave, and the thought of being waited on wasn’t nearly so appealing.

  “He wouldn’t tell me anything.” It was so discouraging that the one person who might be able to tell her something refused to help.

  Beck frowned, twin lines forming between her eyes.

  “He wouldn’t tell you the spell?”

  She sat up straighter. “A spell? Like magic? You never said anything about a spell.”

  If it were as easy as a magic spell, then her problems were solved. Her hands started to shake; she was so close to finding the answers. She put the cup down, so she wouldn’t spill the tea.

  “So, I have to get him to tell me the spell, that’s it?”

  “I don’t know if that’s it.” Beck shook out the dress Emily wore the day before. “I mean, we all have it memorized, but it never seems to work. So we figured he was making stories up, but you’re here.” She turned suddenly and stared at her, eyes wide. “Wait. You don’t know the spell? How’d you get here?”

  “I’d like to know that too.” She picked her tea cup back up; she needed the restorative warmth. Naturally it wasn’t going to be as easy as saying a few words. But how had she gotten here? She’d said no spell. At least she didn’t think she had. Had she muttered something in her drunken state? She couldn’t be sure. No more drinking games ever. That much at least was clear. She scrunched up her forehead in thought. “But you said you have it memorized, why do I need to ask Moses?”

  “In case there’s something else,” Beck said reasonably. “Or in case I have the words wrong.”

  “What are they?”

  Beck closed her eyes in concentration. “It goes like this: Lorska la loon romp leet le tong Fair John Ah March ee sur lee face der lumier ah un otre mo mant”

  Her confusion grew as she listened to the nonsense words. “That doesn’t make any sense. It’s not even English.”

  “Who said magic spells have to be English?” Beck laid out the knit stockings that Emily would soon put on.

  “What’s it mean?”

  “How should I know?”

  Emily sighed. Why couldn’t this be easier?

  “Are there slaves in your time?” Beck asked, not meeting her eyes while getting the rest of the clothes ready for the day.

  “No.” It was true as far as it went, though she supposed, technically slavery still existed in some parts of the world.

  “I want to be free.”

  “You only have to wait a little.” She tried to be reassuring. “By the time this war is over, all the slaves will be free.”

  Beck didn’t look like she entirely believed her. “You want to wait ’til this war is over before you go home?”

  When you put it that way. “No.”

  “So, I help you find out how it works, and you take me with you.”

  She had another sip of her tea. Why not? Beck could adapt quite easily to the twenty-first century. She could even room with her, since Dayna had moved out.

  “You have a deal.” Tension eased out of her. It was always good to have a friend, partner, and ally.

  Beck visibly relaxed. “Eat the bun. My mother makes the very best cinnamon buns I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Your mother made this?” She took the fragrant, warm bun from the plate.

  “Sally. The cook. She’s my mother.”

  “If you come to the future with me, you’ll never see your mother again.” She needed to be sure Beck understood what she was asking.

  “And either one of us could get sold away and we’ll never see each other again anyway. If I’m not going to see her, she’d at least like to know I’m free.”

  Emily tried to imagine a life where she would know for a certain that her mother was still alive, but inaccessible to her forever. Of course, if she couldn’t get back home that was exactly the kind of life she was destined to live. She swallowed over the lump in her throat and took a bite of the bun.

  It was divine. It was heavenly. It tasted like home. More specifically it tasted like Dayna’s home. It was almost exactly like the cinnamon buns Mrs. Gordon made and that she had promised to teach both Dayna and Emily to make. She said it was an old family secret recipe, and she was breaking with tradition by showing Emily, but she considered her another daughter so she would risk it.

  “Risk what?” Emily had asked.

  “The wrath of my slave ancestors,” Mrs. Gordon had said with a laugh. “It’s a very special recipe because it came from my great-great grandmother Rebecca. She was an escaped slave. Isn’t that fascinating? I wish I could have met her, but at least I get to eat her cinnamon buns.”

  Emily hadn’t quite known what to say to that. She didn’t feel comfortable talking about slavery, much less joking about it.

  But if Dayna had slave ancestors, did that mean Beck had descendants somewhere in the future? If she took Beck home with her, what would happen to them? Would a whole line of people cease to exist? But maybe that was what was supposed to happen and she never would have had children in the past but only in the far future.

  But what if she were Dayna’s slave ancestor? What if the old family recipe came from Sally and if Emily brought Beck into the future with her Dayna wouldn’t exist anymore? What if she saved Beck at the expense of Dayna? But cinnamon buns were cinnamon buns, how many ways to make them could there possibly be? Lots of people probably had the same recipe and called it a secret.

  Was it so unlikely that Beck and Sally were Dayna’s ancestors? And if they were, and she helped Beck get to the future, then she was dooming Dayna. But if she left Beck here was she dooming her? Was there a right answer to this?

  “You ready to get in your corset?” Beck stood over her, holding the obnoxious contraption. She didn’t think she’d ever really be ready for that, but for the time being it was what she had to do.

  Beck helped her into all the same clothes as yesterday, and then with gentle hands fixed her hair so she looked like a proper nineteenth-century woman. Too bad she couldn’t get a photo of herself looking like this. It was even better than those Old Time Photo places at the boardwalk. As long as it was temporary. She didn’t even want to entertain the notion that it might not be.

  “You’re expected at breakfast.” Beck stood back and examined her critically.

  “Breakfast? But I just ate.” She held one hand to her trussed up middle.

  “A cup of tea and a bun. That’s not breakfast
.”

  “It’s about what I usually eat.”

  “More than I do,” Beck responded with a wry laugh. “But I ain’t white. You go down and have breakfast with Mister Sam.”

  “I need to go home soon.” She stared at the door that would take her out of the sanctuary of this room where she could be herself, and back into a world she wasn’t equipped to deal with. And Sam. She wasn’t sure she was equipped to deal with him either.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because otherwise I think I’ll fall in love with Sam, and since he’s engaged to be married to someone else, that could be a problem.”

  “Engagements get broken.” Beck was very philosophical about it. “But it doesn’t matter. You’ll get home, and you’ll take me with you.”

  She couldn’t bring Beck to the future, that was clear. Not if she didn’t want to destroy lives of untold, unknown people. But she could help her escape. She could do that. Besides, how could she spend any time in a slave-owning state, no matter how she got here, and not try to help someone escape? If she didn’t then she’d have no moral superiority over all the people who lived in these times and did nothing. She’d always wanted to think herself better than that. Now was the time to prove it.

  In the dining room, Sam stood when she came in and smiled as she lowered herself with a modicum of grace into her chair.

  “I was wondering.” He adjusted his linen napkin and didn’t meet her eye as he spoke. “If you would be interested in going for a ride around the plantation this morning. I can have Sally pack us a picnic lunch.”

  “I’d like that very much.” A warm glow spread through her, a ride and picnic with Sam sounded lovely. Besides, the only other thing she had on her agenda was figuring out how the magic spell worked, and Moses didn’t want to tell her anything.

  “Thank you for your help yesterday on the books.”

  His gray eyes met hers, and she felt a flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with tight corsets. She could not fall in love with him. He was engaged. Though, as Beck had said, engagements get broken.

  “You’re welcome.” She ignored the flush of her cheeks and concentrated on her breakfast, taking a few birdlike bites. “It’s the least I could do after you’ve housed and fed me.”

  “So, rather a quid pro quo?”

  She looked up and saw the grin that spread across his face.

  “Or a friend helping a friend,” she responded with a grin of her own.

  She couldn’t eat much breakfast because her corset constricted her stomach, but she did enjoy a nice cup of coffee. It wasn’t her usual latte, but it would do.

  After they ate, she stood on the porch and watched Moses get the carriage ready. It was a different one than yesterday. This one only carried two people. It had two large wheels and a cushioned seat between them. There was a canopy, but it was down and a black woman was placing a picnic hamper behind the seat in the limited cargo space. The whole thing was painted a shiny black with gold accents. It was the equivalent to a modern day sports car.

  “You’ll be wanting this.” Beck held out a pink parasol.

  “Really?”

  Beck pushed the parasol into her hand. “Mister Sam likes the top down, but the sun gets hot. I’ve heard Miss Elizabeth complain about it often enough. Best to take this and be prepared.”

  “Thank you.” Now she really felt like a nineteenth-century lady.

  Sam came to the steps of the porch and held out a hand for her. “Shall we?”

  His smile was perfectly heart-melting. Why oh why did he not only have to be from the wrong century, but engaged to someone else? Was this the universe’s way of telling her that she was never going to be able to find true love?

  He helped her into the carriage and waited for her to get her skirts situated before climbing in himself. She caught a whiff of sweat and body odor emanating from herself. The dress hadn’t been washed. She hadn’t bathed. She had no deodorant. To put it bluntly, she smelled. Good thing she wasn’t trying to win him over after all.

  He settled in beside her. The sheer masculinity of him was rather overwhelming. Except maybe for Johnson, she couldn’t think of any guys she knew who really exuded such manliness. It was almost intoxicating. He didn’t smell like soap and aftershave or expensive cologne like so many of the people she knew, instead he smelled of sweat and tobacco smoke and leather, and there was a hint of cinnamon too. Or perhaps she still smelled the cinnamon from the breakfast bun.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, and with a nod from her, he flicked the reins, and the horse took off at a leisurely walk.

  “Is there anything you’d particularly care to see?”

  “Can I see where the slaves live?”

  His muscles tensed. “Why?”

  Oh. Maybe that hadn’t been the most judicious request. He was trying to show her the pretty places, and she wanted to see the dark underside. There was nowhere to go but forward on this. “I’m curious,” she said and tried to think of a reasonable explanation as to why she would be. “I know some abolitionists, back home, and they always go on about the horrible conditions slaves live in. Yours seem healthy though.” She wouldn’t go as far as to say they seemed happy.

  “The slaves here are well cared for,” he said, defensively, giving the reins another flick. “They have adequate housing and food.”

  “And an overseer who beats them without evidence of wrongdoing.”

  She felt the slump of his shoulders, but she didn’t look at him. She knew she’d gone too far. She was dependent on his hospitality until she could get back home, and to jeopardize that by pissing him off was probably a really bad idea.

  “I’m sorry.” She tried to sound properly contrite.

  “I don’t live under a rock.” There was no anger in his voice. “I know that in many places the owning of slaves is considered morally objectionable.”

  One eyebrow shot up, and she studied him. “Don’t you think it is?”

  He didn’t answer at first, and she watched his hands work the reins, the large hands that didn’t have to do a tremendous amount of hard labor because that was done by slaves.

  “I do, actually.” He stared ahead as he spoke.

  “Then why do you own slaves?” She couldn’t keep incredulity out of her voice. She would never own slaves. Couldn’t imagine the possibility.

  “First of all, I don’t, with the possible exception of Tobias. My father owns them all.”

  “But not Tobias?”

  “Tobias and I grew up together. He’s been my friend and valet for as long as I can remember. I believe my father officially turned him over to me when I turned twenty-one, but I didn’t care too much about the details at the time. I’d need to check.”

  “So can’t you at least free Tobias?”

  “No,” he said with such finality that she stared at him, startled.

  “The manumission laws make it very difficult, if not impossible to free slaves. But it might interest you to know that my father never purchased a slave. Everyone here was born here.”

  She didn’t think it made it any better, but maybe on some level it did. She remembered Beck telling her about the constant fear of being sold away from her mother. “Did you ever sell one?”

  “My father has once or twice. It’s a business,” he added as if that were an explanation. Maybe to him it was.

  A row of cottages, all newly whitewashed came into view. There was a kitchen garden at the end of the row and wooden benches outside some of the doors. “The slave cottages.” He waved a hand in their direction “They could do worse.”

  “They could also do better.” She was unable to let it go.

  “Undoubtedly, but I do the best I can for them.” His shoulders slumped momentarily as he stared out at the compact cabins. With a deep breath, he straightened up and grasped the reins more firmly. “Can I show you something more interesting now?”

  She supposed she’d been enough of a nudge for right now, and she was in an
intimate carriage with a handsome man, this might never happen again, she should take advantage of it.

  “Yes, please.” She flashed him a smile.

  The grin he gave her back showed he didn’t hold any ill will against her.

  It was time to allow herself to enjoy the day.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sam

  One thing was certain about this mysterious Miss Parks: she was not shy about voicing her opinions. And although, it might appear they were on different sides of the subject, she apparently being a fierce abolitionist, and he, the owner of a plantation that used slaves, he really didn’t disagree with her.

  Unfortunately, as he told her, it was not a simple matter to free slaves. The abolitionists would have you believe that all you need do would be to wave a magic wand and say “be free” and that would be the end of it. But the state demanded payment, insurance against the possibility of the freed black becoming a burden on society. Quite frankly he couldn’t afford to free his slaves.

  He had been going to show her the fields next, with their green sprouts of tobacco and the workers industriously watering and weeding, but he thought perhaps that would bring up more conversation about slavery, and that was the last thing he wanted to discuss with a beautiful woman.

  Instead he drove her to the apple orchards. The trees with their pastel buds were particularly picturesque this time of year.

  “It’s beautiful!” She lifted her face as apple blossoms floated around them like snowflakes. Her open smile warmed his heart. This is what she looks like when she is happy. He wanted to keep that smile on her face all the time.

  He shifted the reins in his hand, letting his shoulders relax.

  “When I was a boy, I used to love climbing the apple trees. Especially at harvest time, so I could get the freshest and best apples, but also in the spring, when it felt like being in the midst of a warm snow shower.”

 

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