She had put up a cot in the small supply closet attached to the kitchen. One window in the fugitive’s quarters let in air and light, but it was kept shuttered and latched day and night. Sarah was thankful the cold front had brought day temperatures of a steady sixty degrees. At least her guest would not roast or be plagued by mosquitoes, and at night, when the temperature dropped, he had the use of plenty of blankets. Sarah slipped him food through a quick opening of his prison door, but at no time was he to show himself in the house. Someone by chance might glimpse him through the slits of the shuttered window over the kitchen sink or through the tiny parlor’s windows, covered during the day by a drawn curtain. The most distasteful chore of looking after her boarder was emptying his chamber pot, a task she met with no less embarrassment than he.
“I’se sorry, miss,” the boy would mutter, handing her the receptacle.
“It’s all right,” Sarah would respond, holding her breath.
She wondered how the boy could endure the cramped, sunless space, with little human contact and activity when she thought she would go mad if she had to spend one more day later than planned cooped up in her house. She felt like a prisoner herself, unable even to take a walk for fear the fugitive, seeing her gone, might venture out into the house or do something to rouse suspicion.
For the same reason, they had not dared talk to each other. Their voices, his with his Negroid dialect, might be heard and they’d be discovered. Carson Wyndham had put out the word that a possible runaway was in the area. There were many who would turn him in—and Sarah Conklin—to have the gratitude of Carson Wyndham. In the brief seconds the boy took the tray of food from her and shut the door, Sarah had only glimpsed his face and skeletal body in the ill-fitting clothes she’d found in the church’s rummage bin. She’d have had him come out to stretch his legs, but, again, neither wished to take the risk of his being seen. Well-meaning people—a neighbor, church member, or parent of one of her students, knowing she was alone until her departure—might stop by with food or offer of company. She was grateful the Sedgewicks would be at the Tolivers’ until late tomorrow afternoon. Jessica was to pick up her and her cargo after luncheon, and they would be long gone by the time Jimsonweed turned into the gate.
But it was almost over. This was the last night of her and the boy’s captivity. She’d packed her steamer trunk and prepared a basket of food for the fugitive to take with him on his escape. It was ten o’clock, pitch black outside with low-cast clouds obscuring the moon. Time to hook her kerosene lantern to the back porch post and await the signal across the creek indicating that all was in readiness at the Charleston Harbor. The agent’s code sign would be three long shoots of flame and one short. She would answer with three brief turns of her lantern’s knob. Anyone observing her that time of night would think fear of fire had driven her outside to test the wick. If anything was amiss with either side, there would be no signal. Sarah prayed to see three tall spires and one quick burst of lantern light across the creek.
Wrapped in her cloak, she hung her lamp on the post, the wick burning low. She had not long to wait until the signal came, and she turned the knob to adjust the flame once, twice, three times. A huge relief filled her as she cupped her hand around the glass chimney to blow out the wick. She’d let her storage-room guest know that so far everything was going according to plan. Perhaps he’d sleep better, as she certainly would. Then, as she took down her lantern and turned to go inside, she saw another flash of light wink from the darkness and abruptly die. Her heart held. What had happened? Was that last spurt of flame intentional or accidental? Had her contact dropped his lantern and quickly snuffed the wick? She listened, her eyes straining into the dark woods, but heard nothing but the soft lapping of water around rocks. She’d gone exploring across the creek once, led by curiosity, and found the covert from where the agent flashed his coded messages. Crushed foliage had given away the burrow of his hiding place, accessed by a path through the woods.
A little disturbed, Sarah went inside and decided not to tap on the storage-room door to impart the good news. She might jinx their getaway. Her traveling suit hung outside her wardrobe in her bedroom. She’d placed it there last night as a lift to her spirits and a reminder that in eighteen hours, she would be on her way to Charleston to catch a boat bound for home. She undressed and climbed into bed in her night shift but could not sleep. Her thoughts were on Jessica.
Sarah was afraid for her. Strong will and impetuosity did not mix, and her friend had an abundance of both. Pair those traits with an utter belief in her invincible position in her family, and Jessica was like a blind person with a cocked and loaded gun. The girl did not believe her father’s warnings. She mistakenly assumed his love for her would protect her from his threats and that he would not risk her affection turning to hate if he used Tippy as a tool to punish her. Jessica did not understand that if she were caught aiding and abetting the destruction of a system—betraying it—on which her family’s wealth, social position, and way of life had depended for generations, her sin would not be forgiven. But Tippy understood, and it was for her mistress’s safety, not her own, that Jessica’s maid was most concerned.
“She may know Carson Wyndham as a father,” Tippy once said to Sarah, “but she does not know him as a white man and master of Willowshire.”
Sarah agreed, relieved that she had Tippy’s understanding of the danger Jessica disregarded. Working together, there was hope they could temper the impulses of their friend’s passionate convictions.
Tippy continued to amaze her—and sadden her, too. Jessica should take sharp heed. Her maid’s life could be snuffed out by one stomp of Carson Wyndham’s handmade boots or by the heel of that son of his, and all that marvelous creative genius in that quirky little head be lost forever—“a colored girl’s head!”—so Sarah had overheard Carson Wyndham snort his objection to Tippy on one of the few occasions she’d been a guest at Willowshire. In his tone, Sarah had heard the unmistakable notes of jealousy and resentment of the affection his daughter lavished on her Negro maid that she did not heap on him or her brother. From that dangerous quarter, too, Tippy must be on guard.
The moon was waning when Sarah finally fell asleep. She thought she was dreaming when she heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves coming up the lane past the manse, the cemetery, and drawing to a stop before her cottage. Startled awake, she leaped out of bed and grabbed her robe, hearing a frightened exclamation from the occupant inside the storage room as she ran from her bedroom through the kitchen to meet the nightmare she’d long dreaded and was sure awaited the other side of her door.
Tying her robe securely, she threw the latch to find a gaggle of men staring down at her from horseback, mouths clamped hard and eyes steely. The leader of them dismounted and tipped his hat. “Good evening, Miss Conklin, or perhaps I should say good morning, as I believe it is now,” Michael Wyndham said.
Chapter Fourteen
I have no idea where your son has gotten himself off to,” Eunice said to Carson at breakfast. “He’s been gone all night. Elfie will be so disappointed if her nephew is not here to greet her when she arrives.”
“He’s out with the Night Riders,” her husband remarked, intent on reading his newspaper. “He’s determined to catch the culprit stealing from us.”
“It was only two hams,” Jessica said, uneasy at the thought of her brother and his lackeys out and about the countryside when she drove Sarah and their cargo to Charleston.
Carson glanced at her. “How do you know it was two hams?”
Jessica thought quickly. Willie May had told her, but just as well her father did not know the source of her information. He would no longer take Willie May into his confidence. “It’s no secret about the theft, Papa. Everybody in the Yard knows it.”
“Tippy, carrying tales again.” Her father harrumphed.
“You have to admit, Carson, that the girl has outdone herself with the decorations this year. I can’t wait for Elfie to see t
hem.”
Carson harrumphed again, but there was no denying that Tippy had created amazing holiday wonders from ribbons, pinecones, evergreen branches, mistletoe, candles, colored paper, wooden ornaments, popcorn balls, fruits, nuts, gingerbread, and glass balls from Germany. Eunice had been so pleased that she had rescinded her husband’s order committing Tippy to work in the weavers’ cabin, where the smoke from the fireplace was not good for her lung.
“It’s a waste of her talents, Carson,” Eunice had stated in a tone declaring she would not budge on the matter. “The girl belongs in the sewing room. Jessica and I are both in need of new frocks for Silas and Lettie’s nuptials.”
Her husband never shrank from a battle unless in those rare instances prudence trumped valor. With the exception of Willowshire, his wife was the love of his life, and he would do nothing to jeopardize his demonstration of it at night in their bedroom. He gave in gracefully, conceding, “You’re right. We must put her where we get the most value.”
Jessica said, her heart beginning to hammer, “Papa, have you ordered the carriage around? Sarah’s ship departs at three o’clock, about the time Aunt Elfie’s arrives, and I want to get us there in plenty of time.”
Carson looked up from his newspaper. “Yes, but I wish you’d wait a little longer for your brother to drive you. I don’t trust the weather this time of year, and the almanac says to expect snow sometime this week. Your aunt’s trunks might be a problem for the two of you to manage.”
“I’ll get a porter to help us,” Jessica said, folding her napkin and beckoning a servant to draw out her chair.
“But how will you get Sarah Conklin’s luggage into the carriage?” her father persisted.
“We’ll manage,” Jessica said, hoping with all her heart that Michael did not appear. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“They want to be alone for girl talk, dear,” she heard her mother explain as she hurried from the room.
“In that case, I’d think Jessica would be taking Tippy along since the girls think she’s one of them,” Carson said with a snap of his paper.
Jessica snatched up her bonnet and cloak and was out the door and onto the carriage seat before her father got the idea to send the coachman with her. Daniel could be trusted, but she would not involve him in her perilous mission.
“Thank you, Daniel,” she said, “but no need to fuss with that. I’m in a bit of a hurry,” she said when he attempted to spread a blanket over her knees. She must get away before Michael rode up and insisted on going with her. He would not miss an opportunity to have the captive company of Sarah Conklin.
Jessica realized that her arms and shoulders were aching from tension by the time she’d made the five-mile trip into Willow Grove and turned down the lane of the church property to Sarah’s front door. She let out a long frosty breath as she drew the carriage to a stop and forced herself to relax. The most stressful part of the journey was behind her. No one was about to see their cargo loaded, and in two shakes of a lamb’s tail she and Sarah would be on their way to their destination unobstructed on this bright winter afternoon six days before Christmas. There would be time in Charleston to enjoy a last cup of tea together before Sarah embarked. Jessica would miss her brave friend, but oh, how much Sarah was looking forward to a reunion with her little nephew and rest of her family. Jessica shared Lettie’s concern. Would Sarah want to come back to them after being home for the holidays?
She had raised her hand to knock on the door when from around each side of the house quietly emerged a cordon of men on horseback. Some she did not know, but others she recognized as a local gin operator, tanner, tavern owner, and a few farmers. All stared at her in disbelieving silence, their taut expressions dismayed. For a moment she couldn’t think. What were the Night Riders doing here? She heard a familiar whinny and turned to see Michael’s black Arabian tossing its beautifully arched neck in greeting and switching its high-carried tail. The saddle was empty, the reins held by one of the men. Fear froze her brain. Her whole body stiffened. Michael opened the door. He stared at her, his jaw slowly dropping.
“No, no, I can’t believe it,” he said. “Not you, Jessie. It can’t be you.…Tell me it isn’t you. You’re only here to pick up Sarah.…”
She could have lied, but all she could think of was Sarah. Blood rushed to her head. “What have you done with Sarah? Where is she?”
“Oh, God. You’re the pickup, aren’t you?” her brother said in a voice thick with anguish. His face had gone as pale as a bleached headstone. Even his deep, metal-gray eyes had lost their glint. Shock and incredulity had lightened them to the color of brackish ice. “We couldn’t get her to tell us who was coming for the boy. We had to wait and see.…”
Jessica pushed by the robust figure. “Sarah!” she cried, rushing through the parlor, into the kitchen, glancing into the open door of the storage room.
Michael seized her arm, stopping her. “She’s in the bedroom,” he said roughly, his face mottling with anger. “Go tend her. I’ve sent for liniment and bandages. Pack her things and get her dressed and into the carriage. Miss Conklin will not be returning to Willow Grove. I will escort you to the harbor in Charleston. We will bring our aunt home, and then I will deliver you to our father.”
Jessica yanked her arm free and ran into the bedroom. “Oh, my God! Sarah!” she cried when she saw the figure on the bed.
Her friend lay facing the wall, her night shift in strips and soaked in blood from the cut of whip lashes across her back. From the other room came a terse exchange of male voices, and Michael entered carrying a wrapped package. Jessica whirled to him. “How could you do this, Michael?” she screamed.
“You ask that question of me, little sister, when it’s the one I should ask of you? Believe me, our father will.” Michael threw the package at her. “There. Clean her wounds. My men are loading her trunk into the carriage now. You have thirty minutes to get your little abolitionist friend ready to leave our shores. After that, she’s food for the buzzards.” He strode from the room and Jessica tore open the package of gauze and lotion.
“I didn’t tell them, Jessie,” Sarah moaned as Jessica hurried to pour water into a basin from a pitcher on the lavatory stand. “They caught the agent and forced him to betray me. He tried to warn me.…I hoped—prayed—that you would not arrive, that something would prevent you from coming and that if you did, you’d think of something to tell your brother.…”
“Sssh, don’t talk, Sarah,” Jessie said as she knelt to remove the remnants of her friend’s night shift to dress her wounds. “Just lie quietly. Think of your little nephew and that you’ll be homeward bound in a few hours. You’ll never have to see the likes of my brother or his kind again.”
“They took the fugitive to Willowshire,” Sarah said, as if Jessica’s words had not registered. “He’ll be returned to his owner. They took him away with a rope around his neck. They made him witness my flogging.”
Jessica thought she was going to be sick. There was a tall magnolia tree behind the cottage. Michael and his ruffians had probably strung her up by one of its sturdy branches, and there was no one around to see or hear the sound of the lashing or Sarah’s wails, if she gave them the pleasure, but her friend had not betrayed her involvement. Working quickly over the lacerated back, Jessica pressed her lips tightly together to keep from weeping.
Sarah motioned her to come closer and lowered her voice to a whisper in case someone in the other room might overhear. Careful of her wounds, Jessica leaned forward. “I’m afraid for Willie May.…”
“Oh God. What does Michael know?” Jessica asked.
“The boy told him he’d heard of my safe house, and he came here. He didn’t mention Willie May, but if your brother is skeptical and questions him further…tortures him…he could talk.”
Jessica felt the blood plunge from her head.
“I’m afraid for you, too, my brave Southern friend, and for Tippy,” Sarah continued.
Dizzily, fe
eling as if she were kneeling on the deck of a weaving ship, Jessica swabbed at the cuts. “Don’t worry about us,” she said. “I’ll think of something to save us all. My father’s bark is worse than his bite when it comes to me. He’ll be furious with me, but he’ll forgive me. I’m his daughter. He has no choice.”
“Oh, Jessica, dear…” Sarah moaned.
Chapter Fifteen
At breakfast in the Toliver household, as well as at other tables in the manor homes of Plantation Alley, the topic of discussion was the unexpected and disappointing cancellation of Willowshire’s annual holiday events. They were the Christmas ball, the tea in honor of the annual visit of Eunice’s sister from Boston for the holidays, and the New Year’s Eve party to which many dignitaries and luminaries were invited. These social occasions were looked forward to all year by those fortunate enough to be on the invitation list and precipitated much advance planning of frocks and accessories and hairstyles by the ladies.
“Whatever do you suppose is the matter over there?” Elizabeth queried those gathered around her table for ham and grits the morning the festivities were to begin. She thought regretfully of the gown hanging in her wardrobe that she’d now not have the opportunity to show off. This morning, in addition to Lettie and her father, who were frequent overnight guests, her family of two sons and grandson had the pleasure of Jeremy Warwick’s company. Afterwards he and Silas were to huddle over the growingly bleak solutions to the problem of Silas and Lettie having to remain behind when the wagon train bound for Texas pulled out in the spring.
“I haven’t heard anything,” Jeremy said.
“It’s as if a dark veil has fallen over Willowshire,” Lettie commented. “I haven’t been able to get in touch with Jessica. When I went to call on her, I was turned away at the door.”