Forever Waiting (42 page)

Wednesday, December 5, 1838

The evening air was raw, and it was going to rain. Lily Clayton made her way up Washington Square past the elegant row houses of Greenwich Village and turned toward Sixth Avenue. Even though it was Wednesday, her employer had allowed her to go home early, an extremely rare act of generosity, and for that, Lily was grateful. Now she had two hours to spare before her sister, Rose, who was minding her children, expected her home. That free time brought her here.

She stopped on the walk outside of John’s row house and noticed the lamps were burning inside. She smiled. The lights meant John Duvoisin was back in New York. She missed him, for she hadn’t seen him since February. Over the past months, she had worried about him, because he never stayed away from New York this long. Now she wondered when he’d gotten back and why she hadn’t heard from him. He always came by to check on her as soon as he arrived in town.

Lily and her sister, Rose, had been house servants at the Duvoisin plantation in Virginia. They were quadroons and became the property of John Duvoisin when he purchased Wisteria Hill, the plantation adjacent to his father’s, in late 1834. They were thrilled when they heard John was interested in buying the property, because they knew all the slaves at Freedom had been set free. On his first visit to Wisteria Hill, she’d been attracted to him. He was young and handsome and, unlike other plantation owners, he had spoken to her, even though she was a slave. Within months of purchasing Wisteria Hill, John freed her and Rose. She moved to the plantation house at Freedom and became the resident housekeeper there, while Rose remained at Wisteria Hill for the same purpose. Rose was a mere two miles away.

Lily was beautiful, her skin a light, creamy tan. She was tall and lithe with straight dark hair, black eyes, sensual lips, and an aristocratic nose. Lily had twin sons and a daughter by her husband, Henry, who had been sold south to a North Carolina cotton planter before John had purchased Wisteria Hill.

Henry was a mulatto, so their children were also light-skinned; the casual observer would never suspect their black ancestry. John had tried to purchase Henry to work at Freedom, but his owner, a viciously stalwart Southerner, was unwilling to sell him for any price, for Henry was big and strong and worked hard. Furthermore, his new master held great disdain for border-state plantation owners who liberated their slaves, and bristled at the thought of even one more black, especially a mulatto, being freed.

Lily knew she would never see Henry again. Over three years ago, she had received word he’d been “crippled” during an unsuccessful escape attempt. Three runaways had made it as far as Freedom, delivering into Lily’s hand a short letter from Henry. According to the runaways, Henry had been brutally mutilated, the toes on his right foot hacked off so he would never run again. Lily became resigned to life without him.

When John began making frequent trips to New York, she begged him to take her, Rose, and her children there. She wanted to start over, to be independent. She wanted her children to be more than emancipated, she wanted them to be educated. In New York, they could go to school. John was reluctant to bring her north. Lily and Rose kept the plantation houses running smoothly when he wasn’t there, which was more often than not. But with her incessant begging, he eventually relented, and nearly three years ago, she arrived with him in New York.

John helped both women find jobs as housekeepers for affluent New York merchants; for the first few months, Lily worked for his aging aunt. He located a tiny house for them in lower Manhattan, gave her money for a full year’s rent, and accompanied her when she enrolled her children in a New York public school. The schoolmaster assumed John was her husband and the children, white. When he asked John where he was employed, he simply said the Duvoisin shipping line, which satisfied the schoolmaster and wasn’t a lie. So, even without Henry, Lily’s life had never been better.

Lily loved Henry and longed to be with him again, but Lily also loved John. She loved him because he treated her with a respect other white men reserved for white society ladies. She loved him because she could tell him anything and he always listened without passing judgment. She could cry about missing Henry, and he understood, because instinctively, she knew he also had been separated from somebody he loved. She loved him because he was kind to her children and he made her laugh. She loved him because he had never forced himself on her, as every one of her other white owners had. Even so, she had shared his bed many times. John had joked if Henry ever found out, he’d overcome his infirmity and escape bondage solely to find and kill him.

Tonight, she would seek out John. He’d relieve her gnawing need, one that hadn’t been satiated since February. After her children were fed and put down to sleep, she would leave them with Rose and return to John’s house.

John pulled his collar up high around his neck and his cap down low on his forehead, his back to the hallway as he rapped on the landlady’s door. The building had been sectioned so each floor was a two-room apartment. The ground floor corridor was shrouded in darkness, as evening was falling and rain pounded on the muddy street outside. Most of the longshoremen had already arrived home, the connecting houses resonating the sounds of clattering dishes, muffled voices, and children’s play.

The landlady opened the door. She was a stout, middle-aged woman, her greasy, gray-streaked hair tied back into a ponytail that reached her hips. She looked up at him, chewing on a mouthful of her dinner.

“Whaddaya want?” she asked before swallowing, one front tooth missing.

“I am looking for Dr. Coleburn.”

“Did ya knock on his door?”

“There was no answer. When does he usually arrive home?”

“Who wants tuh know?” she boldly asked, sizing him up. He’d probably knocked up his girlfriend and needed the doctor’s services.

“A patient.”

She eyed him skeptically.

He flashed her a one-dollar note.

“He gets back late. After nine o’clock, gen’rally. You’d best come back then.” She snatched the bill from his hand.

“It’s raining. I’ve come a long way, and I’d rather wait for him here, in his apartment.”

Though suspicious, she didn’t object. “What’s it worth tuh ya?” she asked, fingering the keys that hung on a chain at her waist.

John extended his hand again; a crisp five-dollar note sat neatly in his palm. Her greedy eyes grew wide. “How’s about two of those?” she replied.

Frederic pushed through the front door and found Michael in the parlor reading a newspaper next to the burning hearth. Dusk had fallen and all the lamps were lit. It had been a long, yet gratifying day.

Late last night, the
Heir
had reached New York. Frederic had spent the hours after dawn closeted in the captain’s cabin while John showed Michael where Blackford lived and worked. In the two hours they were gone, Frederic explained to Will Jones, the
Heir
’s captain, what had happened and what he planned to do. By the time John and Michael arrived at the wharf, Will knew if, for any reason, Frederic, John, or Michael had not contacted him in three days’ time, he was to sail back to Charmantes without them. There he would tell Paul that Blackford had indeed been found under the assumed name Coleburn, and Frederic and John had attempted to apprehend him on the sixth of December. Frederic was confident nothing would go wrong, but it was best to be prepared for the worst.

The
Heir
carried a letter from Charmaine, and Frederic had watched as John eagerly ripped into it, the third he’d received. He’d been happy with all her news, especially pleased to learn the Harringtons had decided to remain on Charmantes until the baby was born. He was befuddled as he read on; Charmaine had not received any of his letters, save the first one. Frederic had assured him that mattered very little now. By tomorrow, everything would be resolved and they’d be on their way home, arriving a month before the birth of his child.

The remainder of the morning had been grueling. Frederic and John unloaded the ship’s cargo onto a partially laden vessel that had berthed in New York en route to Liverpool. They had hastily commissioned the other carrier while the cargo space was still available, and threw themselves into the laborious task of shifting goods, since hired help was short that morning. In this way, the
Heir
could return directly to Charmantes, and the sugar and tobacco promised for Europe would arrive on time. Frederic had felt extremely lucky that morning. He’d been certain they’d have to wait at least a fortnight before a Duvoisin vessel reached New York.

A crew had been hired by lunchtime, and Michael realized he was of little use standing around. He was only getting in their way. So, he left them and spent the afternoon and early evening walking the streets, visiting a myriad of churches and buildings, many of them magnificent. In the weeks they had been there, he’d rarely gone exploring, and by tomorrow, they’d be traveling to Charmantes, so this was his last chance. When it began to rain, he headed home.

He’d been at the house for nearly two hours and looked up when Frederic entered, pulling off his wet overcoat, shaking it out, and hanging it in the foyer. “Where is John?” he asked when the door did not reopen.

“What do you mean?” Frederic queried. “I thought he was with you. He said he was going to meet you when he left the merchant’s office a few hours ago.”

Their eyes locked, and Frederic’s face grew stormy. “What is Blackford’s address, Michael?”

“13 Stone Street,” he answered, praying John had taken him to the right building and hadn’t purposefully misled him. “It’s just south of Wall Street.”

“Thank God.”

“I should go with you.”

“No. Wait for me here—in case we’re wrong.”

Michael looked at him skeptically. “I should check the clinic. Something may have happened there. We will meet back here.”

Frederic agreed, then rushed upstairs, taking the stairs as swiftly as his lame leg would allow. Riffling through his trunk, he found the revolver and bullets he’d purchased their first week in New York. He hastened back down to the foyer, where he pulled on his coat, loaded the firearm, and shoved it deep into a pocket. Grabbing his cane, he threw one last look at Michael, who was also ready to leave. Together, they set off, hailing two cabs.

Robert Blackford climbed three flights of stairs to his cramped rooms. The cry of a baby and the couple fighting on the floor below echoed upward, the odor of food fried in rancid suet melded with the must of the damp hallway. Although the row house afforded him anonymity, he eschewed such squalor whenever possible. Practically every evening, he visited the affluent neighborhoods north of this hovel, where he could enjoy the finer things in life the city had to offer. Tonight, he was returning from dinner at the Astor House Hotel. Tomorrow, he would go to a playhouse. He liked it here in New York. Indeed, life was better than he imagined it could be, even without his beloved Agatha.

He walked to his door, put the key in the lock, and turned it. He tried to push the door open and realized he had locked rather than unlocked it. Funny, he always locked up when he left.

He stepped into the dark flat and groped his way to the lamp on the table. Finding the tinderbox, he struck the flint and lit the wick, the flame flaring up in the lamp and illuminating the cold room. He rubbed his hands briskly together to warm them against the chill and decided to leave his cloak on. After thirty years in the Caribbean, he would never grow accustom to the penetrating cold.

It wasn’t until he turned to light a fire in the stove that he saw the shadow of a man sitting in the chair next to it. Recognition spurred him into motion, and he swung around swiftly, flying to the door.

John was out of the chair in an instant, reaching out and clutching his billowing cloak. Robert managed to pull the door open before he was forcefully jerked backward. John immediately threw an arm around his neck and grabbed his wrist, yanking it high behind his back. Robert howled in pain.

“It’s reckoning time, Blackford,” John growled against his ear, pushing him toward a large wooden dish tub set on the floor next to the stove.

As they got closer, Robert could see it was still filled with the morning’s dishwater. John wrenched his arm even higher, then violently kicked the back of his legs so they buckled under him, and he fell to his knees before the tub.

John followed him down. “Tell me why you did it, Blackford.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, John,” he croaked, as he felt his nephew’s hand move to the back of his head. “There must be some kind of mistake. What is this about? Can’t we talk about it?”

“Tell me why you did it, and I’ll let you live.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Then why are you hiding here under an alias?”

“Please, John … ”

John ignored his pitiful appeal and began pushing his head slowly, purposefully down toward the water. “How do you think it felt, Blackford?” John cried. “How can you live with yourself knowing what you did to Pierre?”

Robert resisted, struggling to turn his head aside as his face met the cold water. Then he was totally submerged, held fast, immobile. He concentrated on mustering all his strength to throw his body backward, but that effort proved futile. John finally released his head, and he came up sputtering and gasping for air.

John took tighter hold of him, pressing a knee deep into his back. “Are you ready to tell me why you did it now?”

“It wasn’t my idea—it was my sister’s! Paul is her son,
he
should have been the heir.”

“That’s not good enough, Blackford!”

John propelled his head toward the water again. “Do you think this is how it felt, you evil fiend?” he sobbed. “Did you take great pleasure in drowning an innocent child? I want
you
to know how it felt, you Satan!”

He plunged Blackford’s head deep into the tub again, pressing down upon him for endless seconds. Great air bubbles churned violently to the surface, and water sloshed over the sides of the tub. Blackford’s legs thrashed and kicked across the slippery floor, catching the chair and toppling it over. His free arm flailed in every direction, blindly grappling for anything within reach. John released his head, and Robert emerged, heaving and gulping in air.