Her father said sharply, “Emily, we’ve talked about this more than once. We can give you a perfectly fine wedding much sooner than that.”
Susan said, “Not in a month, Lawrence.”
“How long?” her father said impatiently, addressing her stepmother and not Emily.
“We could do it in three months,” Susan said.
Emily was trembling very badly. She said, “You talk about me as though you’re planning to sell a bushel of rice.”
Susan said, “Of course not. Just getting you settled.”
Her father said, “Emily, we’ve discussed this more than once. Your mother and I have been patient with you. We’ve indulged you. No more. You’ll settle on a date.”
“And if I don’t?”
Her father reminded her, “We’ve talked about that, too.”
Ellison said, “Sir, let me.” To Emily, he said, “It’s time for you to make me happy. I’m asking you. Settle on a date, and we can make whatever arrangements you like. But don’t put it off any longer.”
Emily jerked her hand from Ellison’s and rose from the sofa. “You said you wouldn’t press me,” she said, her voice trembling. “You promised you would never press me.”
“We’re past that,” Ellison said.
Her father said, “He’s about to be your husband, Emily.”
“No!” Emily cried, and when the tears rose to her eyes, she allowed them. She was in a haze of anger and upset. She wanted to wrench the ring from her finger. She wanted to fling it at John Ellison’s feet. “You promised!” she said to Ellison, starting to sob. “You lied to me!”
Ellison reached for her hand, but she turned away. Weeping, not caring that her stepmother saw, that her father saw, that the man she dreaded marrying saw, she ran from the room and up the stairs, letting her feet thud heavily, most unladylike, on the steps.
After her outburst, Emily expected that her father might order her locked in her room, and her stepmother might send her bread and water to eat, in the hope of starving her into submission. But they did not. Emily recognized the nature of the silence, heavy and ominous, like the ache in the air before a storm. Her parents had gone quiet like this before when they had reprimanded, scolded, slapped, and switched an obdurate slave with no result. This was their time to brood over the punishment to come next.
A week after Emily had fled from John Ellison in tears, Ambrose showed her into the study, where her father and a stranger stood before the hearth in conversation. The early afternoon air was thick and warm, and the smell of whiskey suffused it, a manly perfume. The stranger was taller than her father and broader in the shoulders. He wore his hair long in the manner of a Virginia man, and the face he turned to Emily was softened by courtesy. His eyes were the same color as a turkey vulture’s: a light, translucent brown.
Her father said, “Emily, this is Dr. Powell.”
“How do you do, sir,” Emily said. She wondered who his people were and how her father knew him. She had never met a Powell, either in Charleston or in upcountry.
Her father said, “I’ve asked him to take a look at you.”
“But I’m not ill,” Emily said politely.
“Dr. Powell is a specialist in nervous diseases,” her father said.
Puzzled, Emily said, “But I’m not nervous, either.”
“Let me be the judge of that,” Dr. Powell said, smiling to soften his words.
Her father said, “I’ll leave you with him.”
“No one to chaperone, Papa?”
“He’s a medical man, not a suitor. You can trust him,” her father said, and he departed, leaving the door slightly ajar.
Dr. Powell gestured toward the chairs that faced the hearth, where no fire was laid in the summer’s heat. He was at ease, as though he were in his own house, or wherever he saw his patients. “Shall we sit?” he asked.
Emily sat, arranging her skirt. The pretense of a social visit gave her comfort. “Dr. Powell, what is this about?”
“Your mother and father are concerned about you. They tell me you haven’t been yourself. Subject to fits of weeping.”
“There are girls who cry over everything—a sentimental novel, a sick pet, a tiff with a friend. Surely that isn’t a sign of illness? Or nerves?”
“These ailments are very stealthy, especially in young women,” he said, smiling again.
She thought, Some women must find him charming. But his smile bothered her. His teeth were very white, and the smile showed the canines, which were surprisingly pointed.
Emily folded her hands in her lap to hide that they were trembling. “My father said that you were here to take a look at me,” she said. “How do I look?”
“Miss Jarvie, he meant for me to examine you, and in my capability, that means to talk to you as well.”
“Then by all means, talk to me.”
He settled into his chair. “Miss Jarvie, your father tells me that you have been writing for publication. How did that come about?”
“A friend of the family is the editor of a magazine for ladies. He asked me to pen something, and I put my hand to it.”
“You kept it from your mother and father.”
“It was a lark. Why trouble them with it?”
“You have put yourself forward, into the public eye, in a most unladylike way. Why would you do that?”
Emily heard Madame Devereaux’s voice echo in her head. “Many ladies write for publication,” she said. “Did my father tell you that I never let my name be published? I wanted to spare him any embarrassment.”
“But you earned money by it, and you continued with it.”
“The editor paid me for my efforts. Should I have refused the money?”
He frowned. Any girl who was easily intimidated, who wanted his good will, might be upset at that dark expression. “Your father provides for you, as your husband will provide for you once you marry,” he said. “Why would a Charleston girl of good family soil her hands with the filth of the marketplace?”
Emily said, “I’m well acquainted with many a young man of good family who makes a living as a lawyer or a broker. I’ve never seen them refuse a fee or a commission, and they never think of money justly earned as filthy.”
“But you’re not a young man, whose place is in the world. You’re a young girl, whose delicacy and purity should be sheltered at home, in the bosom of your family.”
Emily thought of Camilla, who was as calculating as any broker or factor. “Dr. Powell, perhaps you have seen a young girl engaged in finding a husband? It’s quite a worldly business.”
“That’s a most unladylike attitude for a maiden, Miss Jarvie.”
“But I’m not a maiden, Dr. Powell. I was engaged once, and my beloved died. Now, it seems, I’m engaged again.”
“But you’re reluctant to make arrangements for your wedding.”
“Marriage is a very serious business, Dr. Powell. Even the most innocent maiden is aware of that. Shouldn’t it be undertaken with a great deal of judgment?”
He leaned forward. “Do you think that your judgment is better than your mother’s? Or your father’s?”
She felt very tired. “Doesn’t love enter into the decision to marry, as well as duty? I’d hope that my parents would allow me that much judgment.”
“You exercise your own judgment quite a bit, Miss Jarvie.”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Every day, I decide which dress to wear. And when to leave the house for a bit of fresh air. I can even go to the dry goods merchant and pick out my own handkerchiefs.”
“Much more than that, Miss Jarvie.” His voice was pleasant, as though they were discussing an upcoming ball. “You refuse to marry the man your father has chosen for you, but you correspond with your lover, who has beguiled you with the immorality of opposition to slavery.”
In an equally pleasant tone, Emily said, “Oh, Dr. Powell, it’s no such thing. He writes to me about the business o
f the magazine, and in friendship, he tells me about his life in Ohio.”
“You’re lying to me, Miss Jarvie.”
“A gentleman doesn’t tell a lady she’s lying.”
“I know you’re lying.”
“How?”
He pulled the packet from the pocket of his frock coat. “Because of these.”
Joshua’s letters, bound with a black ribbon, the ones she thought she had hidden in her room. “You’ve read them? Who gave them to you?”
“Your father. After he read them.”
She felt a fury so intense that it made her temples throb. It made her dumbstruck.
He said, “He is a traitor. A Carolina man! He is unhinged. A man who admired John Brown and grieved when he was hanged! And you are not a whit different. Caught up in his lunacy.”
She controlled herself, even though her hands were trembling. “Dr. Powell, surely a strong political opinion isn’t a sign of madness? Judge Pettigru, an esteemed man of Charleston, has called support of secession a form of madness. Would you send every secessionist in South Carolina to the asylum?”
“A headstrong delusion may be a sign of madness, Miss Jarvie. I understand that you think of one of the kitchen maids as your cousin. Carrie, I believe her name is.”
“She’s called Caroline,” Emily said.
“Do you think of her as your cousin?”
“She’s my uncle’s daughter. Isn’t that the definition of a cousin?”
“You think of a Negro slave as your cousin?”
“Whatever her color, she’s still my uncle’s daughter.”
“Why did you help her escape?”
Emily was stunned into silence.
He held up the bundle of letters. Still pleasant, he smiled, as though he might ask her to dance. “If you would burn these, I’d take it as a sign of your health,” he said.
Joshua’s letters, as dear to her as Joshua himself. “And if I don’t?” she asked.
“I’ll insist that your father allow me to take you to the asylum in Columbia where I can examine you fully.”
“And what will happen then?”
He said, “If you’re ill, you’ll remain there until you’re well.”
“When would that be, Dr. Powell?”
“When your father and I deem it.”
He was a madhouse doctor, and he was sure that she was mad. She rose. “There’s no fire in the house, not in the summer, but there’s one in the kitchen. Come with me.”
They walked through the yard and into the kitchen, where Dulcie and her children were at work. “What is it, Miss Emily?” Dulcie asked.
“May I put something on the kitchen fire, Dulcie?”
Dulcie looked puzzled. “Yes, miss, but why?”
Emily said, “Don’t worry, Dulcie.” She approached the great hearth, where the fire always burned, and she dropped the letters into the flames, with no show of fury. She watched as the pages flamed, twisted, and blackened into ash. As she watched, as Dr. Powell watched her, she recalled Caro’s words: So that’s the prison they found for you.
Chapter 16: We Are All Slaves Now
When Caro woke, she did not remember where she was. The sheet beneath her was soft, worn cotton, as was the quilted coverlet over her. The pillow under her head rustled with feathers, not straw. The last of the night’s cool breeze whispered from the windows, but the rising sun had turned the room’s white walls the color of the palest honey.
She threw back the quilt and sat up. The bruises on her legs had turned an ugly color, blue ringed with a sickly yellow. She touched her discolored skin, and it all returned to her, her mother’s funeral and her own flight in a wagon full of bricks.
She was in Sunday Desmond’s house in the Neck. She was an orphan, and she was a runaway.
Outside, the Neck stirred and woke. A sleepy-sounding woman called, “Jackie, you take up that pail and go to the pump. I need water.” A baby wailed, and a girl’s exasperated voice said, “Can’t you hush!” Hens cackled, benefiting from an unseen hand casting crumbs. A man’s deep voice roused a horse: “Mose, get on. We got work to do.” The smell of the Neck, a place less well tended than the rest of Charleston, wafted into the room, the reek of backyard privies and middens mingling with the smell of coffee, bread, and bacon. As everywhere in Charleston, the smell of flowers in bloom—the strong fragrance of magnolia, azalea, and camellia—struggled against the stink and failed to overwhelm it.
Last night, too tired to care, she had flung her dress over the back of the bedside chair and fallen into bed. This morning, it was neatly folded. On the wash table, the ewer and basin had been set, along with a cloth and a sliver of soap. Someone—was it Sunday, or did someone else live here, someone used to folding and tending?—had done this for her while she remained asleep.
She splashed her face, glad that the wash table had no mirror. She put on her dress and slipped into her shoes. She descended the steep steps.
The house was hushed. Empty. She walked into the kitchen—in a house this small, the kitchen was indoors—where a pot of coffee warmed on the stove. She held her hand near the firebox. The fire had been banked.
If the house was supposed to be empty, feeding the fire would draw attention. She would let it go out.
On the kitchen table sat a loaf of bread covered with a cloth; a dish of butter, also covered; and a jar of preserves. The table was set with a thick china plate and a thick china cup. She hadn’t eaten since the funeral meal, and the smell of coffee was suddenly savory. She poured a cup and cut herself a slice of bread, spreading it with butter and jam. But when the meal was before her, her throat closed, and she couldn’t eat. She bent her head, as Sophy did when she said grace, but all that came to her lips was, “Mama.” And a scalding rush of tears.
She could hear Sophy’s voice. “She gone, but you got to eat. Don’t want you to fade away, too.”
Caro picked up the bread and forced herself to eat. Despite the jam, it tasted of the tears she had wept into it. It tasted of salt.
When she finished, she left the cup and plate on the table. She looked for a bucket of water to wash the dishes but saw none. The nearest water was probably at the neighborhood pump, and someone in hiding had no business walking through the neighborhood to fetch water.
Outside, the Neck went to work. Women emerged from their houses with bundles balanced on their heads, wash or sewing. Men in coarse cotton shirts and nankeen trousers strode toward King Street to walk south to Charleston proper. Horse-drawn carts rumbled down King Street, draymen calling to their horses to encourage them and to each other, to get out of the way. On Line Street, just below her window, a handcart rolled down the cobblestones, and a man sang out, “Sweet as sugar! Strawberries, blueberries, blackberries! The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice!”
She wandered from the kitchen into the parlor, careful not to stand at the window. Last night she had been too tired and terrified to notice anything in the house. Today, in sunlight, she took its measure. The furniture—sofa and chairs—was secondhand, worn with a century of use, but it had been well tended. A faint smell of beeswax lingered. A little shelf had been fitted into the room’s darkest corner.
The top shelf sported two miniature Staffordshire china dogs, kin to Sophy’s shepherdess, but the middle shelf held books. Caro read the spines. The King James Bible. The Plays of Shakespeare. Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe. Frederick Douglass’s Narrative of My Life.
She had never read Mr. Douglass’s autobiography, and she took Douglass’s volume from the shelf and cradled it in her hands.
She sat in one of the armchairs—the one least visible from the window—and opened the volume to Douglass’s portrait, dignified and leonine. He had been a slave and a fugitive before he became an eminent man.
She stared back at him as the flagrancy of her escape washed over her. She wondered if Lawrence Jarvie had published a runaway notice in the Mercury. Would he send the Guar
d for her? Or would he keep the shame of her flight quiet?
At the sound of footsteps outside, footsteps hesitating on the sidewalk before the house, she froze. But when she dared to peek out the window, she saw only a stout woman who had halted to adjust the great bundle of laundry that she carried on her head. Her burden secure, she resumed her walk down the street, her heavy shoes echoing on the pavement.
Caro bent her head again, tears welling in her eyes, and as the grief returned, as vivid as sickness, she closed the book.
Book in hand, she fled upstairs to the room she had slept in, with its white walls and white sheets. She slumped onto the edge of the bed as exhaustion swamped her. She lay back on the bed and closed her eyes. She kicked off her shoes and let the book fall beside her. As the morning light flooded the room, Caro crawled under the covers and pulled them over her head to block out the day.
The night that her mother died, Caro had taken Sophy’s advice to heart and put mourning aside until later. At the funeral, she had been stony, and as she fled her servitude in the Jarvie house, she had been too frightened to weep. Now she felt grief deluge her. “Mama,” she whispered, and the tears came in ragged sobs that tore at her chest. She buried her face in the pillow to muffle the noise. She thought of her mother, her face waxy in death, her beauty consumed by her cough, her dignity taken away by slavery. She recalled the lovely mother she had known before her father died, her earbobs sparkling in her ears, her silk dress rustling around her ankles, her smile quick and sweet when Caro’s father caressed her cheek or spoke to her with love.
Papa. She had never grieved properly for him, either. She had been too busy trying to take care of her mother. She thought of the expression that his portrait had captured forever. The portrait was lost to her, too. She pressed her face into the pillow, curling herself around the pain in her chest and belly, feeling no relief as she sobbed. Dear God, she thought, unable to call it prayer. Help me. Let me follow them, both of them, so I’ll be with them once more.
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