Dreams of Savannah

by Roseanna M. White

  The only thing she knew anymore was that Salina was the only one willing to be the friend she needed—the sister she needed—right now. She was the only one who acknowledged the pain.

  She was the only one who, by her very existence, demanded Cordelia look for the first time at something beyond her own limited world. A calling that weighed as heavily as the tragedy that felt like chains around her heart.

  But answers to how she could help Salina were as elusive as a hopeful story. She knew nothing about the shadowy world of runaways. Even less about how to circumvent the law and find a way to free a slave legally. She couldn’t shake the conviction that she had to do something to grant justice to her friend. She just didn’t have any idea what.

  “Don’t you give up, Miss Delia. I won’t let you. You give up, and your mama and daddy will have you married to that Mr. Julius in about half a blink.”

  “No.” The suggestion was enough to straighten Cordelia’s spine and bring up her chin. “I still have that much fight left in me.”

  “Do ya?” Salina pressed her lips together and shook her head. “You just sit here and take all they pour over you. Your sister’s accusations of betrayal, your mama’s insistence that you’re out of your head to have any hope, your daddy’s worry. You gotta stand tall, Miss Delia. That’s what Mr. Phin will be expectin you to do.”

  Cordelia nodded, but still she had no desire to go downstairs. Thus far she’d managed to avoid society since word of Phin’s death spread through town, and she didn’t relish going into it tonight. To see the pitying glances and hushed whispers. To have to speculate on the speculation.

  “As soon as I go down there, Daddy will push me toward Julius.” Her stomach twisted. She forced a swallow through her tight throat. “I’d rather put that off as long as possible. It’ll send Lacy into another rage, and I don’t look forward to having to tell him again that I am not interested in his suit.”

  Just that morning her little sister had declared with a stomped foot that if her parents encouraged a courtship between Cordelia and Julius, she would flee to Ginny’s the very next day to escape them all.

  Mama had declared that a fine idea.

  Cordelia had wanted to cry. Ginny was already all but out of her life, save for her letters. She didn’t want to lose Lacy, too, and over a man she wanted nothing to do with. But it seemed she’d already lost her—or lost the connection with her, anyway.

  Yesterday, when her little sister had stormed in here to complain about how their mother was in such a snit and it was all Cordelia’s fault, Cordelia had told her why. Told her the truth about what had sparked the latest bout of fury in their mother. Told her—with some strange hope that Lacy would finally be on her side again—that Salina was their half sister, and Mama was just angry that she continued to be a part of their lives.

  And Lacy had actually sneered. Had said, “Listen to you! She’s not our sister. She’s just a half-breed slave. Heavens above, it’s no wonder Mama’s been so angry with you—and yet still you’re her golden daughter, worthy of the best match!”

  How? How could the truth be presented so clearly to Lacy, and yet her little sister looked right through it? How could they have been raised in the same house by the same people, and yet Lacy have no concept of what gave a person value—not the color of their skin, but the color of their heart?

  Or maybe Cordelia was the odd duck. Because it seemed she was the only one in their house who looked at each slave now and wondered about their story. Wondered who they were when the masters weren’t present. Wondered what dreams they would chase if they had the freedom to chase them. It had started just with Salina, yes. She was only one of many slaves in this house, in this city. One of so many people who had been treated for so long as if they were not people—people with stories and dreams.

  The world was so twisted. So shadowed. Like a book that had gone down the wrong path chapters and chapters ago, because rather than go back and fix the mistake, the author had just kept on following it, darting down new rabbit trails until they ended up here.

  Here. With a house full of guests and parents who expected her, somehow, for some reason, to put aside all the pain and pretend to care about their ridiculous ball. All so that she could impress a man she detested, secure a match she didn’t want, and help build a plantation empire she could no longer be in favor of.

  Every time she thought of the plantations now, she could only see Salina’s mother. Her aunt. Her cousins. A whip hovering always over their backs. Threat their only companion. Every time she caught a glimpse of Julius, she imagined him standing over a cowering Salina, threatening her.

  Like Daddy must have stood over her murruh. Demanding what he had no right to demand. And she, knowing well she couldn’t object, couldn’t argue. How would she dare? He held her very life in his hands.

  She closed her eyes again and tried to pull her mind back to Savannah. Back to this nightmare. Tried to imagine how the evening might go. No one would notice her entrance, of course, she would make sure of that. She’d skirt the edges of the ballroom, find Sassy and Willametta in the back, where they were sure to be. First, she’d apologize for not being with them more in the past fortnight. Try as she might to spend her time there, Mama had found too many reasons to keep her home.

  But she’d use their black skirts as a blind tonight as long as she could. Stand behind them, where the blue of her own gown would go unseen.

  Still, Daddy would know where to look for her. No doubt he’d head her way eventually, with Julius at his elbow. Her cousin would have that dreadful look on his face, the one that spoke of arrogance and a desire she wished he would direct elsewhere.

  But . . . but . . . something would intervene. Someone. Perhaps a handsome stranger would sweep into the room and steal everyone’s attention. He would be someone uninvited, of course, but dashing enough to command everyone’s gazes.

  He’d have hair the color of honeyed cypress. Eyes of a gleaming hazel. Stand exactly a head taller than Cordelia . . .

  All right, so it would be Phin. She could scarcely think of any other man, so she may as well give in to her longings, if she were dreaming. Phin would sweep in, and a gasp would run through the room. The whispers would ripple out at that speed that only gossip could ever hope to attain, and Daddy would stop in his tracks—and stop Julius with him. They’d turn, and Cordelia would look beyond them.

  The crowds would part, of course. Making a path between them. A hushed reverence would fall over the room, and Cordelia would find herself gliding forward as if on a cloud. A glorious, effervescent cloud of dreams come true. The chandeliers would glimmer like gold and create a veritable halo around them. They’d draw ever closer, each step deliberate and yet measured. But she’d finally be near enough to see the passion shimmering in his eyes.

  “Delia,” he’d say in that way of his, drawing it out as if savoring each syllable. “Delia, you brought me through it. Thoughts of you—”

  Without warning, Julius jumped out from the crowd, rage upon his face. Cordelia opened her mouth to scream a warning, but it was too late. The sound of his sword ringing free of its sheath echoed through the room, quickly drowned out by his scream. She tried to leap forward, but her feet felt caught in a morass.

  And Phin just stood there, unable to move in time, unable to avoid the arc of the blade.

  A sob tore from her throat, and Cordelia slid from bed to rug as the image of her love crumpling and falling filled her mind’s eye.

  “Miss Delia!” Salina’s hands were on her bared shoulders, but Cordelia couldn’t convince herself to uncurl. The storm, so long held at bay, shook her whole body. The sobs came in quick, rolling waves, convulsing her stomach and making her fingers dig into the carpet as if it would offer some anchor.

  There was no anchor, not anymore. No hope. Even if Phin survived the bullet, survived the water, even if he survived every evil that befell him, there was no way he’d make it home. It had been three months. Three months. I
f he were alive, they would have gotten word.

  But they hadn’t. Because he wasn’t. Hope had sunk back in July, down into the depths of the Caribbean.

  She would wait forever. But it would be an empty eternity, and dreaming otherwise would make her nothing but a fool.

  “Cordelia!” Mama’s voice this time, and the swish of her satin skirts. She felt them on her arm as her mother crouched down, but she couldn’t open her eyes. Couldn’t slow the sobs. “Whatever is going on?”

  “I don’t know, ma’am. One minute she was sittin there, pretty as you please, with a dreamy look on her face, and the next she started screamin and cryin and just fell to the floor.”

  “Cordelia.” Mama touched a cool hand to her cheek. “Darling, you are making a mess of yourself with these hysterics. Really, I expect more of you.”

  “Maybe she’s just not ready for a ball yet, ma’am—”

  “Oh, hush up and do something useful, girl! Go fetch a cool compress for her face before it swells beyond all recognition.”

  “Yes’m.”

  Cordelia’s middle heaved so forcefully she was surprised her corset didn’t snap. But no, it just constricted, making it impossible to get a breath. She gasped for one, only to lose it in another shuddering wail.

  Mama pulled her up and gave her a shake. “Get ahold of yourself. A fashionable swoon is one thing, but this is ridiculous. You will not ruin this ball with your theatrics.”

  She tried again to draw in a breath deep enough to steady herself. Failed again. Shuddering, convulsing, she could make no response. Had no response to make. She just wished her mother would stop touching her, would stop speaking, would go away.

  Mama hissed something and moved around behind her. For a moment, given her mother’s hands upon the buttons up her back, Cordelia thought some small ray of hope must have shimmered through, that Mama would command her out of her dress and into bed.

  A few yanks, and the pressure around her middle loosened along with her stays, allowing precious air into her lungs. “There. Catch your breath, calm down, and then let Salina repair the damage to your face and hair. I expect you downstairs within the hour.”

  A few swishes of satin, and the door closed.

  Cordelia fell forward again onto the rug and tried to focus on breathing. Part of her wanted to rail at her mother for her lack of compassion, her lack of understanding.

  But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

  Phin was gone.

  Daylight was fading by the time the stage rumbled into Savannah. Phin was all but sure he’d worn his teeth down to nothing, clenching and gritting them as he had done all day. His leg hadn’t hurt so much since he had regained consciousness, but the constant jarring of the stage had nearly done him in.

  Maybe that was why entering Savannah didn’t give him the jolt of pleasure he had expected. Why he looked out over the wooden buildings kissed by the red-gold fire of the sinking sun and felt only a vague stirring of disappointment. He could think of no other explanation. Certainly he should have been glad to see all the soldiers in their coats of various grays and blues. Shouldn’t have looked at them so cynically, wondering which would betray a brother first.

  As the stage drew to a halt at its final stop, he closed his eyes and shook his head. He had thought the bullet in his leg his greatest cause of injury—but that honor undoubtedly went to Spencer.

  He felt the thud of Luther jumping to the ground from his place beside the driver, and a moment later the door opened and the familiar giant hand displayed the crutches that had been secured along with the rest of the baggage.

  “Go ahead, son,” one of the other passengers said with a smile and a shooing motion. “I daresay you’re more anxious to get out of this thing than any of us.”

  So he hadn’t succeeded in hiding his discomfort from the other passengers. Ah well, at least he hadn’t disgraced himself with a bunch of moaning and groaning, even if his teeth would likely ache for days. “Thank you, Mr. Benfield. It was good to meet you and your lovely wife. Mr. Scott, Mr. Kennedy.”

  Their farewells sounded as he maneuvered himself into the doorway. They’d stopped enough times that he had this particular dismount down to one fluid motion. He gripped Luther’s shoulder, let him brace his upper arm, and jumped to the ground, landing on his good leg.

  “Thank you, Monty.”

  Luther smiled and motioned to the row of cabs waiting by the inn. After positioning his crutches under his arms, Phin led the way to the first one. Within minutes, they were yet again bumping along, and he was yet again clenching his teeth.

  The fire of the sunset disappeared into the half-light of dusk as they gained the good section of town. “Almost there.”

  Luther studied the streets of brick and stone mansions and shot him a glare.

  Phin sighed. Luther had known what he came from, but he supposed this first glance of prosperous Savannah brought it to life in a way words never could. There were similar sections in London, he knew, but Luther likely didn’t frequent them. Even in free-as-the-air England, black men weren’t greeted as equals. He no doubt had a nice little home in the Negro section, but nothing like this.

  His heart felt its first thump of happiness when he spotted Dunn House. But it gave way to fresh disappointment when he realized there were no lamps lit in the rooms his family would frequent this time of day, only in the foyer. They were not at home.

  He leaned toward the driver. “It’s the gray one there, on the right.”

  The man turned the horses into the drive and pulled them to a halt at the front doors. No one rushed out the doors to meet him, as he had imagined they would do. No one was there waiting. Phin drew in a deep breath, let Luther help him down, and paid the cabby.

  As the horses clomped away again, Phin stood for a moment and just looked up at his home, the place he’d been longing to reach forever now.

  “Are you just going to stand there, or go in?”

  Phin jumped at Luther’s deep rumble. It had been days since he’d last spoken, days since he’d had the opportunity to. Grinning at himself, Phin turned to his friend. “I forgot you had a voice.”

  Luther snorted a laugh. “More like you wanted to forget.”

  “Nah. I find I almost miss your sermonizing. Almost. I may have missed it more, had it not continually echoed through my memory anyway.”

  With a chuckle, Luther motioned toward the stately façade. “Shall we, my lord and master?”

  Phin narrowed his eyes even as he hobbled forward. “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Luth.”

  “Nonsense. It and I are the dearest of friends.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” He made his way up the stairs and gripped the latch. It wouldn’t be the first time he had arrived home unexpectedly and had to let himself in, but it hadn’t happened often. Usually a servant was stationed at the entrance.

  Not so tonight. He swung the door wide, stepped into the cool entryway of his home, and looked around. A staggering stack of calling cards sat upon the tray. More flowers than usual adorned the tables.

  A servant screamed from the hallway and dropped a tray with a clatter and clang. Phin pivoted as best he could on his crutches and headed her way. “Old Bess! Are you all right?”

  She’d followed the tray to the floor and kneeled there in the mess, a hand splayed over her chest and her dark eyes wide and incredulous. “Lawd o’mercy, protect me now from the spirit come outta the water to haunt me!”

  Phin sighed, propped his crutches against the wall, and lowered himself to the floor beside her. Getting up would be a chore, but he’d think about that later. “Were I a ghost, Bess, this wouldn’t hurt nearly so much.”

  The shake of her head looked trancelike. “No suh, that’s just trickery. Mass Sidney, he got that letter from our boy’s commander. He done got shot and fell overboard, so you ain’t him.”

  “Logical.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Except the Lord saved me from the water, Bess—somehow. I washed up in Cuba.
I was in a real bad way, though, for months. Nearly died. But I wrote when I woke up—I assume my letter never reached home?”

  Bess shook her head again, but some of the glazed fear faded from her eyes. “They never got no letter, no suh. That really you, Mr. Phin?”

  “In the aching flesh.” He held out a hand, let her grip it. “Is my family away for the evening?”

  She grimaced. “They done gone to the Owenses’ ball. Yo mama didn’t want to, but yo daddy say she need to git outta the house. Since word come bout you a coupla weeks ago, she been a ghost herself.”

  “The Owenses’?” Though he tried not to frown, he felt his face pull down anyway. It didn’t take any great genius to puzzle out why Delia’s family would be throwing a ball so soon after hearing he was dead.

  It seemed his fears were well-grounded.

  “Let’s hope they don’t mind an uninvited guest.” He tried to push himself up and succeeded only in wearing a bit more enamel from his teeth. “Monty, could you . . . ?”

  Strong hands gripped his arms and lifted him.

  He shot his friend a smile. “Much appreciated. Is River here? I should change before I go.”

  The servant clambered to her feet, shaking her head. “He done gone with yo folks, Mr. Phin. He been keepin an eye on Miss Sassy, what with all them soldiers flocking the city like moss on an oak.”

  “Ah. Perhaps Father’s valet, then?”

  Bess planted a hand on her hip and sent an arch glare over his shoulder. “Cain’t this strappin fella here help?”

  “Oh.” He glanced at Luther, who nodded. “Of course he can.”

  The look Bess gave him was the same one she’d been prone to use when he was a boy, trying to hide some mischief he’d found. “You buy him from his massuh or somepin, to see ya home?”

  Hopefully reaching for his crutches would excuse the vagueness sure to plague his affirmative hum. “His wife was sold somewhere in Savannah, and I promised to help him find her. Don’t suppose you’ve come across an Eva? Would have arrived in the spring, about thirty years of age?”