River tilted his head.
“Stay safe. And . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. That order he and Father had received that morning still glared in his mind’s eye. He would not send River to dig. Never. “And take yourself to Tybee soon too. They mean to draft you into digging. I won’t allow it, and I’m sure not refugeeing you inland. So, you just get yourself away from Savannah before they can force the issue. Hear me?”
His face hard, River shook his head. “I kin’t leave yet, Phin. Not wifout Salina.”
Phin. It was the first time he’d ever called him that, without a title ahead of it. Even through their shared childhood, that Mister had always been there. How could his name sound so different, so much warmer, without those two little syllables leading to it? “Well then.” He put his foot in the stirrup and pulled himself up. “We’ll just have to see she goes with you.”
Cordelia ran her fingertips over the gold-leafed title as she closed the cover of Great Expectations, volume three, yet again. She’d already read the whole thing three times, and she told herself that was all the longer she’d hoard it up here in her room. Books were precious these days, and new titles hard to come by. It seemed cruel to deprive her parents of the pleasure of taking a turn with it, even if it had been a gift from Phin.
Her lips turned up at the mere thought of him. Of how he’d looked at her on Christmas. Those beautiful words that had whispered from his lips. He loved her.
Pulling the shawl he’d given her more tightly around her shoulders, she stood with a little sigh and gathered up the other two volumes of the book as well.
She’d no sooner slipped into the hallway than Fiona, Moses’s wife, shuffled by with her dustrag in hand. She gave Cordelia a warm smile. “Mornin, Miss Delia. You sho made my day last evenin, tellin us dose stories.”
Cordelia grinned back. She’d known Fiona all her life but had always thought her rather grouchy. Funny how things looked different when you knew someone’s heart. She’d spent a solid three hours with the woman last week—and then, when Mama and Daddy went to Pulaski House for dinner yesterday, she’d offered to share all the stories she’d compiled thus far with the servants. Never had she imagined that an evening spent in the kitchen could be so much fun. “It was truly my pleasure, Fi.”
She expected the old woman to keep going on past her. Instead, she stopped at Cordelia’s side and reached a gnarled hand up to rest on her cheek, looking deep into her eyes as she’d never done before. “You done brought some light into these daa’k times fo us, Miss Delia. We grateful.”
For a long moment, all Cordelia could do was draw in a deep breath and cover the weathered fingers with her own. “You don’t need to thank me. I’m only sorry I had never taken the time before to realize you all had stories to tell.”
Fiona chuckled and let her hand fall away. “You a chile befo, honey. Chil’ens don’t never see sech thing, most times. But you done now. More’n most can say—white or black.”
Maybe it shouldn’t feel like the dearest compliment she’d ever received, but Cordelia fairly floated down the stairs and into the library. So peaceful was her heart that she didn’t even scowl upon realizing there was no room anywhere on the shelves for the three volumes in her hand. No, instead she grinned at the packed bookcases, fair to bursting with countless hours of joy as they were. She’d just do a bit of rearranging, that was all.
It was only the fiction shelves that were so overcrowded. Daddy wouldn’t mind if she expanded that section by a shelf, would he?
She glanced at the other bookcases, filled with various nonfiction—some of which she appreciated, given that she used them for research, and others she’d never touch in a million years. Then she glanced at the door. He might sigh at her, but he wouldn’t do anything if she took over another shelf.
Decision made, she set about her task with gusto, stowing Great Expectations on a table for a few minutes while she set about creating a few stacks of books in the nonfiction section to take up less horizontal space and use all the vertical. Frankly, she kept telling Daddy it looked charming this way anyway. And he kept shaking his head at her and letting her do whatever she liked to the fiction section.
Half an hour later, she was sorely aware of how big a task she’d just made for herself. It seemed once she fiddled with one shelf, she had to do the same to the previous, and the one before that, and before long all of them. But she eventually reached the shelf full of economics treatises, which should be the last one she had to do.
She’d never so much as pulled these off in curiosity. The very name Adam Smith was enough to make her shiver in dread. How could Daddy ever have forced himself through that enormous The Wealth of Nations tome? With a shake of her head, she pulled out it and its neighbors.
And frowned. Two books were flattened against the back of the bookcase behind them, their scrolled back covers facing her. Had it been one, she’d have thought it nothing but an accident. But two matching volumes? No, this was clearly a two-part book, deliberately placed behind the most boring titles Daddy owned. Which could only mean he hadn’t wanted her or her sisters or mother to find them.
Before she could even pause to think of why he might hide books from his family, she was reaching for the one on her left, pulling it out, flipping it over. Her breath caught. Uncle Tom’s Cabin: or, Life Among the Lowly by Harriet Beecher Stowe.
Her eyes flew to the door, half expecting Daddy to appear there with thunder in his eyes. Well could she imagine why he had this book that, by all accounts, had played a major role in leading them to war—he’d want to be aware of what was enflaming the North against them. She’d heard him denounce the story as slanderous nonsense once, though she hadn’t paused to wonder how he knew. But why had he kept it instead of getting rid of it, if that were the case?
Well, whatever his reasoning, she wasn’t about to put the volumes back. Instead she replaced the economics tomes just as they’d been, quickly made her stack elsewhere to gain the room she needed, and finished her reorganization. Then, contraband hidden in the folds of her skirt, she raced back upstairs with heart pounding.
In her hands she held a novel that had changed the course of history. And she meant to discover how Mrs. Stowe had accomplished it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Too many soldiers crowded the room. Cordelia tried to push aside the sense of overwhelm, to laugh and flirt like Sassy and Annaleigh and Maybelle were doing. It was, after all, the last these particular men would see of Georgia for who knew how long. Tomorrow they’d be marching to Virginia with General Lee. Savannah would be all but empty.
But she wasn’t feeling festive, and smiling at all these men for the last hour had made her cheeks ache. She stubbornly clung to her seat now, even though Mama had been playing lively dances on the piano for the last twenty minutes and kept shooting her annoyed glances. Perhaps it was cruel of her to refuse to dance when she was one of so few young ladies present. Of so few even left in the city.
And perhaps she’d feel more inclined if her mind wasn’t still whirling with the words from Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Given that she had to read it in secret, when she knew no one would interrupt her, she’d only just turned the last pages that morning, two weeks after her discovery.
Her heart ached for those fictional characters—more, it ached for the real people she knew, some of whom had whispered stories to her that were not so dissimilar. Daddy could say all he wanted that it was slanderous. It wasn’t.
Maybe all masters weren’t cruel, but Mrs. Stowe hadn’t said they were. Hadn’t Mr. Shelby, in fact, been a kind man? The kind of master her father and all his friends claimed to be? But the fact still remained that when push came to shove, he’d sold Uncle Tom and little Henry to save his own hide. Sold them like horses or oxen or acres.
She stared at the collection of laughing, dancing couples. People who, even with war knocking on their very doors, at least knew they wouldn’t end up on an auction block or in the hands of an
unscrupulous slave trader. They knew that, win or lose against the Yankees, their lives would still be their own.
A basic comfort that would be denied Moses and Fiona and Fanny.
And Salina.
Cordelia’s eyes slid shut. She, too, was a slave. Not her father’s daughter so much as her father’s property. Maybe he said he’d never sell her, that he’d give her legally to Cordelia, but she didn’t want to own her sister. She wanted better for her. She wanted . . . she wanted freedom for her.
But did wanting that for her sister, for all their servants, change her own role at all? She was like Mrs. Shelby—not a harsh mistress, but complicit simply by being a mistress. She was part of the society that held them in bondage.
Salina and Moses and Fiona had trusted her with their stories and encouraged her in the telling, but for the first time in her life she had to wonder if that was enough. If caring was enough.
That question had kept her up far too late last night, and there was no one she could talk to about it but the Lord. He had never forbidden slavery in His Word, it was true—something she’d heard argued time and again. But Paul had given instruction, which she’d reread that morning, in Colossians 4:1. Masters, give unto your servants that which is just and equal; knowing that ye also have a Master in heaven.
What was just? What was equal? What was fair, remembering they had their own Master?
Only one answer settled in her spirit. If they were to do unto their slaves as they wanted God to do unto them, then that left nothing but the very things Americans had been taught to value above all: freedom and equality.
“You sure look lonesome, Cousin.”
It took effort to open her eyes, but she managed it. And told herself not just to scowl at Julius, who would be marching north with the rest come morning. Thank the Lord for that blessing. Still, her smile felt pained when she looked up at him. “Not at all.”
“You’ll have to do better than that if you expect me to believe you.” He sat beside her, pulling his chair too close and then leaning in. “The prettiest girl in Savannah shouldn’t be alone at any gathering. It’s just not right.”
“Fiddle-faddle, Julius.”
“Is it?” He braced his arm on the back of her chair and leaned in still more. No doubt it would look, to everyone else, as though he were merely trying to be heard above Mama’s enthusiastic playing.
No one else felt that shiver of alarm course up her neck from where his breath fanned it though.
“You know well your father’s never going to permit Dunn to ask for your hand. Your choices, my sweet Delia, are quite clear. You either disobey him . . . or you give me a chance.”
She tried to shift away, but she had chosen a petite chair, one that left little room for her to wiggle, what with the volume of her hoops positioned just so within it. But she could turn her face away, at any rate.
The truth wasn’t ignored so easily, however. Daddy had indeed made his decision clear, over and again these past weeks. To Julius and only Julius would he give his blessing.
She had made her stand clear as well—she would never consent to that match.
Which meant . . . what? Remaining unmarried or disobeying her father? Were those her only choices? And did it even matter, in light of the greater war waging its way through her soul?
Julius trailed a finger down her arm, from elbow to wrist. “I’d make you happy. Give you anything you wanted. A whole room full of books and paper. That’s all you say you need, right?”
She pulled her arm away, clasped her hand to the place that seemed to itch from his touch. “You know nothing about me.”
He somehow made a laugh sound like a weapon. It grated on her sensitive flesh, trying to rip and tear. “I know nothing about you? Have I not taken every opportunity to be in your company, tried so hard to win your smiles? Yet you spurn me at every turn. But please, not today. Come, my beautiful Delia, just one dance before I march to Virginia to defend you. One dance.”
She sighed and glanced down at the hand he’d rested, palm up, on the arm of her chair. A refusal was on the tip of her tongue, but then she looked into his face. And sighed again. Much as she dreaded the thought of his company, it wouldn’t hurt her to grant him one dance before he marched to what could be his death. “One—and only one. And don’t think it’s out of anything but pity.”
When she set her fingers lightly upon his, he gripped them and pulled her up. His grin made her regret her decision in a heartbeat. Wolfish, that’s what it was. Positively wolfish. And she’d never felt more the lamb.
But she couldn’t pull away now—he’d already swung her into the group of other dancers, just as Mama transitioned from the reel she’d been playing to . . . a waltz?
“No.” Much as she didn’t want to make a spectacle, she couldn’t give him a waltz. “Not this one. The next song.”
His hand clamped onto her waist, the other holding hers far too tightly. With the sparks shooting from his eyes, she half expected the room to be set ablaze. “He isn’t here to claim it, now, is he? Of course not. He isn’t good enough for you, and your parents are smart enough to recognize it. He’d rather be rubbing elbows with the slaves anyway. Rumor has it he’s even had a hand in helping a few runaways—which we both know means he’ll end up swinging from a noose soon enough.”
The dizziness that swamped her wasn’t because he spun her too quickly into the dance. “What?”
He sneered. “That’s right. He’s knotting his own rope at this point.”
She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Phin, helping runaways—was that true, or just what Julius would consider a nasty rumor? Was Phin in danger?
She squeezed her eyes shut. Or was he her hope of salvation for Salina? For Moses and Fiona? For Fanny? For any or all of them willing to risk the run to the islands?
Having her eyes closed made the dizziness worse, but at least it bought her a moment to try to sort it all out in her mind. She’d known Phin was different—loved that he was different. But she hadn’t imagined he’d risk his own life. Was he though?
Julius pulled her to an abrupt halt and took hold of her chin.
Her eyes flew open and took in the hall that would lead to the library and Daddy’s office. How in the world had he maneuvered her out here? Why’d she gone and closed her eyes like that? Had she been paying attention, she would still be in the safety of the group. Not alone with the wolf.
When she tried to pull away, his fingers tightened around her jaw. “Is that really what you’re looking for in a husband, Delia? A man who can’t defend what’s his—a cripple? A man who prefers the company of blacks to his own kind?”
“Yes.” The tears blurring her vision shamed her, but he was hurting her chin, and her wrist, too, where he still held it. “Let me go.”
He leaned down, his tobacco-scented breath making her skin crawl. “I’ve been patient. I walked away when you refused me at Christmas. But we’re out of time. Your parents and I have agreed. We’ll marry tonight, Delie-Darlin. A quiet affair. Then you can take your mama home to Fulton County. She can see her sisters again, her brother, her cousins. Don’t you want to do that for her? Make sure she’s safe?”
She was already shaking her head, though obviously not in answer to the question. “Not like that. I won’t, Julius. I will not marry you, not ever.”
“Of course you will.” His smile wasn’t just confident—it was hard. “If you don’t, your father said he’d send that pretty little maid of yours to Ginny.”
“He wouldn’t.” Would he? Her blood ran cold. Lacy had probably told Ginny by now that Daddy was Salina’s father. What if she reacted like Lacy had? What if she, like Mama, thought the best solution to the embarrassment would be to sell her? Be rid of her forever?
No. She couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t let her best friend, her sister, endure such shame—and likely worse.
But would Daddy really ask this of her? That she sacrifice herself, the rest of her life? All for his
dreams of a Southern empire?
Fury swept over her, fast and hot and fueled by a pain so dark it blinded her. Fury with Daddy. Fury with Mama. Fury with the state of Georgia and its impossible laws. Fury with this arrogant man before her.
She tried to jerk her chin free, but when he only tightened his grip, her vision went hazy with rage. She gathered her skirt in her free hand, pulled back her hoop. And then kicked him square in the shin so hard it sent a tremor all the way up her leg.
He released her with a string of curses, and she quickly backed away. When he sneered over at her, the mask of gentility slipped off, revealing a face that seemed mottled with hatred. “You’ll pay for that, you little she-demon.”
“Come a step nearer and I’ll scream to high heaven.” Would it even matter though? Would Daddy care that Julius had just proven right her every fear about him—or would he blame her?
She wasn’t about to find out. Instead, she gathered her skirts, spun around, and flew away.
Salina hummed along with the music drifting all through the house as she ran the cloth over the pane of glass, reached high as she could to get all the way to the corner. Heaven knew if she missed a spot, the missus would find it. Would come in here after the guests left looking for a fault to find, though she rarely stepped foot in the library otherwise.
And shorthanded as they were right now—as every grand house in Savannah was—there was plenty of work for Salina to do imperfectly. Plenty of chances for the missus to screech at her for not excelling at what she’d never been called upon to do before. Especially today, when the other staff were busy tending all those officers and ladies.
But why dwell on that? She hummed a little louder, reached a little higher. Until she heard a deeper hum join hers, match it point for point. Coming from outside somewhere. After glancing over her shoulder to make sure everyone was still in the drawing room, she raised the window to better look out it.
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