The Time Heiress (16 page)

“But for now, I only want to go to bed. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

She did not offer her hand and he did not try to take it. She opened the door and went inside.

The moment she was within, the entire household rushed up to her, taking her very much by surprise.

Evie spoke first. “Cassie! Where-ever have you been?”

“Mrs. Reilly, are you well? You look terribly pale!” said Miss Johnston.

“We expected you long ago,” continued Evie, “what has happened?”

“Stop examining her!” said Miss Ketchum stepping in and taking her arm. “Let her come and sit down!”

They led her into the parlor, where Sarah Johnston was seated, talking to a young man. The man rose and turned to Cassandra. She was looking into the face of her former lover.

“Mrs. Reilly,” said Evie excitedly, “this is Jeremiah Junior. You know, Miss Johnston’s brother, Mrs. Johnston’s youngest son.”

Of course. She realized that it was not Benedict, but his son, who looked exactly like him. She burst into tears and went running out of the room.

A moment later, Evie knocked on the door of her bedroom.

“Cassie?” she called quietly.

Cassandra was struggling to remove her clothes.

“Come in,” she said with exasperation, dashing her hand across her damp face.

“Cassie, what happened?” Evie asked as she entered.

“I do not want to talk about it right now!” She fumbled with the buttons of her bodice.

“Here, let me help you.” Evie went to her and easily unbuttoned the garment, drawing it off her shoulders. She then began to help loosen the corset.

“It’s fine, I can do it,” said Cassandra, sniffling.

“Cassie, please tell me, were you hurt? Did Mr. Evans do something?”

“No, it is nothing like that, we just had a scare. I…I cannot…I will tell you about it in the morning. I just want to go to bed now.”

“Very well, if you are sure. Can I bring you some tea or some milk? Maybe a glass of wine?”

“No, thank you.” She stood in her chemise, untying her petticoats. “I appreciate it.”

“Very well.” Evie moved toward the door. “Goodnight, then.” She went out and closed the door behind her.

Cassandra finished undressing and pulled on her nightgown. She took the dropper from the perfume-like bottle on her dresser and pressed it to each of her wrists, then blew out her candles and crawled under the covers of her bed. She went immediately to sleep. The thumping sounds that came from the attic did not wake her; they were only mixed and confused with her dreams of coaches, horses, and slave catchers.

*****

Travel Journal, Evelyn Bay: Friday, May 20, 1853—This morning, Mrs. Reilly told us what had happened to her and we were horrified to think that she had been in danger. Later, she and I spoke privately about the possibility of going home early, but neither of us wants to. I cannot, though I did not say so.

There are things I am longing to tell her right now, but they are things that I can only say here in this journal. I have begun to have very strong feelings for Caleb Stone. I know that I should resist such feelings, but I cannot. We have spent many hours over the last few days in conversation, and Wednesday he finally confided in me that painting is his passion, though he believes that his work is not good enough to be seen by the public. He told me that Miss Johnston insisted on purchasing the painting that now hangs here in the house, but that he thought she was just being kind. I thought, if only he knew what I know, if only he could understand the depth of his talent, but I could not make him see it. I asked him if there were more paintings and he admitted there were, but he did not want to show them to me.

He did reveal to me that he used to be a slave on a plantation in North Carolina, that his mother and father were sold away from him when he was too young to remember, that he picked cotton for years and years growing up, that he lived with Samuel and Lillian Ketchum and that when he was about twenty, they ran away together to New York. He said he’s been here five years, that Miss Johnston took him in. Under her tutelage, he learned to read, write, and speak without dialect, that she, Reverend Williams and Sarah gave him lessons. They also taught Miss Ketchum and Samuel.

He says they must be constantly on their guard from slave catchers, although five years ago, when they arrived in New York, they thought they were safe. It wasn’t until the passage of the Fugitive Slave Act that they had to become vigilant. He said not to mention any of this to anyone. He said it’s dangerous for too many people to know that they’re runaways.

Then yesterday, I was out in the garden with my book when he came by in the afternoon and we took turns reading out loud. I helped him with difficult words, but mostly we just talked. When he said he needed to get back to the church, I asked if I could go with him. We walked together in that awkward way, me pretending to be his superior, and he with his hat pulled low so as not to be recognized. When we arrived, I boldly asked if I could see his room, so he cautiously took me up, looking out all the while for Reverend Williams.

His room is in a garret on top of the parish hall. It’s not large, but the space is luminous with skylights. In it was a bed, a table and chair, an easel, and canvas after canvas of his paintings stretched onto wooden frames. He stood by silently as one by one I looked them over. They were mostly scenes of rural life. In one, a vast green and brown field stretches, dotted with endless white splotches of cotton. The white is starkly contrasted with the black figures bent over the plants. I could feel the ache in their backs, though I could not see their faces. In another, a group of dark-skinned men and women huddle around a fire, their ramshackle cabins behind them, while a small child stands in a doorway, staring, his eyes bright in the darkness. In another, a white woman sits on the porch of a grand house with knitting in her hands. Her skirts are spread out around her, and her wide bonnet hides her eyes. She looks clean and soft. Next to her a black woman sits on a low stool holding the yarn. She is dressed in a ragged shift, and her feet are bare. Her expression is blank. I cannot begin to describe them all. They are haunting, exquisite, desperate, eloquent. Before I knew it, I was weeping. I sat down in the midst of them and just looked. I could not speak. Caleb stood and watched me. He finally asked me, in almost comic understatement, “Do you like them?” I laughed as tears streamed down my face and I rose to go to him. I embraced him, though I knew it was very forward. He kissed the tears from my cheeks and then pressed his soft lips onto mine. We stayed like that for just a moment, then hurried out of the room and down the stairs. We walked silently and separately back to Miss Johnston’s and quickly said goodbye at the gate.

There is so much on my mind now. Caleb, and… I almost dare not write it here, the work that I have agreed to do to help Miss Johnston and the others. I have been lying to Cassie about it. Mr. Evans has been helpful in keeping her out of the house. We have only to keep it all quiet one more night, and then it will be over.

*****

Mr. Evans stopped in at the house on Fifteenth Street at eleven o’clock Friday morning, just as Cassandra and Evie were preparing to go to All Angels to apologize to Sarah Johnston. Evans was full of contrition and begged them to let him come along. Cassandra could not be angry with him; on the contrary, she felt even more intrigued now that she realized what great effect his speeches and writings must be having for him to be perceived as such a threat.

He assured the ladies they were not in danger being seen with him. He said that the gang of slave catchers could not know his whereabouts at all times, but must have been tipped off the day before about his plans for the opera. Cassandra always felt safe in the presence of Miss Johnston anyway; she seemed so capable and self-assured, and so they agreed to let him accompany them the several blocks to the church. Evie walked ahead with Miss Johnston.

“The man who is looking for me is Tom Vanderhoff,” Evans began. “Those men who came after us yesterday are his lackeys. You might wonder why he is wasting his time on me when what he really wants are runaway slaves, but it is just that—” He paused and Miss Johnston and Evie both turned to look at him. “I have, in the past, worked with the Underground Railroad.”

“You have?” asked Cassandra.

“Yes, I have helped organize routes and set up safe houses. Believe me, I have not risked my life in the same way or gone to the lengths so many other brave people have to help the slaves to freedom, but because I am vocal and visible, they are targeting me. They want to shut me up. I think if they could just scare me away from my work, they would, but since they cannot do that, they may ultimately want my blood.”

“Dear God!” Cassandra exclaimed.

“Therefore, I am going out of town for a while, probably for about a week, maybe more. I have speaking engagements in New Jersey and Philadelphia, and the timing is good. They will not follow me there. They are not here in town at the moment specifically because of me. They are on the trail of some recent runaways, and they will stop at nothing to find them. Even worse, while they are here, they will try to make as much money as possible and, as a result, many Negro people are not safe out on the streets alone. That is why our work is so important right now. All of the work of the abolitionists is vital. Slavery must be ended. It is the only way to put a stop to this horror.”

Cassandra was silent. Only she and Evie knew what was really ahead for the country, though perhaps the very politically savvy could guess.

When they arrived at All Angels, Sarah led them into a modest sitting room and served tea.  Cassandra explained about the circumstances of the opera and their pursuit by the Vanderhoff gang, with interjections from Mr. Evans.

“Mrs. Reilly, I am so sorry that your vacation has become fraught with such unpleasantness,” said Sarah. “Now that you have befriended our family and those who move within our circle, you have, in a sense, become susceptible to certain dangers.”

Cassandra felt her pulse quicken.

“I am rather used to living with that feeling of uncertainty about who might be lurking around the next corner,” continued Sarah, “because, growing up the daughter of an abolitionist, my life has been threatened more than once.”

Cassandra saw that Mr. Evans was gazing at her.

Sarah went on. “The day that slavery was abolished in New York, we thought better times were ahead, but such has not turned out to be the case. I am ashamed that New York City continues to be the hub of the buying and exportation of cotton. It is an industry that feeds the country’s dependence on slavery. Therefore, we cannot rest until slavery is abolished through-out the land.”

“Mrs. Johnston, I admire your struggle with all my heart,” said Cassandra. “I just thought that Miss Bay and I would be rather taking a break from it all during our time here.” She glanced toward Evie. “Now, I seem to be involved beyond my choosing.”

“Mrs. Reilly,” said Mr. Evans. “There should be no further danger for you now.”

“Mr. Evans is right. I personally consider myself on the periphery now, and I am relatively safe from most perils connected to the cause. Though Father continues to preach for abolition, I have been apart from most of that work since I married and began raising a family. I simply do not have the energy for it all anymore. However, I am proud to see my daughter follow in her grandfather’s footsteps.” Her eyes brightened as she looked toward her offspring.

“Was your husband involved in the movement?” Cassandra ventured.

Evie shot her a look.

“Benedict? Well, yes and no. He was very absorbed in his music, as a professional musician must be, and he was determined to provide well for his family. I know that he was proud of the work my father did, and admired me for my dedication to the cause. But he was also glad that I was a devoted mother to his children.” She smiled and her eyes crinkled. “He received so much joy from his children. I have to say that family was more a priority to him than anything else, and I cannot fault him for that.”

“I wish I could have known him,” Cassandra said softly.

Evie coughed.

Cassandra was beginning to appreciate what Ben had seen in his bride. The door opened, and Sarah’s son Jeremiah walked in.

“Ah,” said his mother. “If you want to know what Ben was like, here is a pretty fair duplicate. He is like his father in so many ways!”

Now that Cassandra could look at Ben’s son with a certain degree of calm, she realized that although he did look very much like his father, his face shared some of Sarah’s features. Like Evie, it was the eyes that were most startling similar to Ben’s, yet having those eyes before her, and comparing them with Evie’s, she realized that Evie’s had the color, but not the shape of Ben’s. She then compared Jeremiah’s face with that of Miss Johnston’s, and considered that while he had been gifted with his father and mother’s attractiveness, beauty had passed over his poor sister, leaving her instead with the mannish looks she’d inherited from her grandfather. At that moment, though, her features were softened with affection for her handsome little brother.

Jeremiah had just come from a rehearsal and had his violin case in hand. His mother suggested that he play for them now, and after bolstering his energy with a large glass of lemonade and a half a sandwich, he complied. Cassandra could see he was very talented—not quite the virtuoso that his father had been, but indeed very good. He asked if she would accompany him on the modest rectory piano, and she did, on the first movement of a Mozart duet. When they finished, he begged her for more, and Cassandra was eager to continue, but Miss Johnston said she needed to get back home to help Lillian with a letter-writing campaign.