CHAPTER 18—PROMISES MADE

2 December 1852

 

John’s absence leaves a void that I have been trying to fill by delving deeper into the conversations with the slaves about songs and artistry, hoping to uncover hidden messages. But instead of their usual spirited demeanor, I find them subdued. Their heads hang low, and they avoid eye contact and conversation. Disturbed by this change, I wrote to my friend Lilah for advice. Her reply arrived this morning, her words dripping with urgency.

“My dear friend,” she began, her tone grave, “you must understand the impossible position in which you are placing them. They have every reason to trust you, but can you not see the danger they face? It is both remarkable and concerning that Dick and Sally confide in you, sharing secrets they would not dare reveal to any other white person. Please, for their safety, realize that you must tread carefully.”

Burying my head in my hands, I could not help but feel a surge of guilt wash over me. How could I have been so thoughtless? My desire to learn more about our people blinded me to the potential consequences of my actions.

Before breakfast, I retreated to the garden, seeking solace among the winter-bare branches and frost-covered ground. The crisp air bit at my cheeks, my mind churning with regret and worry. But even as I berated myself for being naïve, a part of me is still drawn to these people and their stories. I find myself caught in a never-ending battle between wishing to protect them and wanting to know more. I am conflicted, unsure of what path to take next.

As I walked, lost in thought as I often am, I nearly collided with Sally who was hurrying past with a basket of linens. Studying her face, I felt a pang of guilt. The openness and trust present in our recent conversations were now replaced by a guarded expression on her face.

“Sally,” I began hesitantly, “I fear I have put you and the others in an uncomfortable position with my questions and curiosity.”

Her eyes widened, but she remained silent.

“I never intended to cause any trouble or place anyone at risk,” I continued. “But in my pursuit of knowledge, I failed to consider the potential consequences for all of you.”

She glanced around before responding in a hushed voice, “Yes, Ma’am.”

The lump in my throat grew as I realized the harm I may have caused by asking for information that perhaps should have remained hidden. 

Sally met my gaze, and I saw a glimmer of understanding before she looked away. I then realized the tremendous trust she and Dick gave me.

“I will not ask anymore,” I whispered. “But I want you to know that I appreciate what you shared with me.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

As she hurried away with her basket, I felt a mix of sadness and resolve settle over me. I could see the fear in her eyes and feel the weight of her gratitude for my silence.

Naïve in my eagerness to learn, I had not fully grasped the risks I was asking them to take.

Suddenly, a chill ran through me, as if warning me of the consequences of my curiosity. The old oak tree at the edge of the garden loomed over me like a judgmental figure, its bare branches reaching out towards the bleak winter sky.

Beneath its shadow, I reflected on what I had learned - the hidden meanings in Dick’s metalwork, the coded messages in the slaves’ songs. These were not mere curiosities to be explored at my leisure, but lifelines of hope and identity for those stripped of so much. 

And I could not shake off the thought that my selfish pursuit could have jeopardized their safety and well-being. I recognize the enormity and the responsibility of that knowledge. I can no longer view the world in the same way.

Therefore, I vow to not forget what I learned but to be more careful, more considerate in how I act on that knowledge. I promise that Sally and Ellen will continue their lessons. And as for Dick... for now, I shall let him be. The risk is too great for me to approach him again without raising suspicion.

I felt a calm determination settle over me as I am anchored to a greater purpose. I shall channel my curiosity and passion for learning into more discreet avenues that will not endanger those around me.

I made my way to the kitchen, where I found Sally and Ellen busy with their morning tasks. The aroma of baked bread filled the air, and I could hear the gentle clinking of dishes as they prepared for the day ahead. 

I caught Sally’s eye and gave her a small, reassuring nod. She returned it with a barely perceptible smile before turning back to her tasks.

“Good morning, Mistress,” Sally greeted me with a warm smile, though I noticed a hint of caution in her eyes. I wondered if she intentionally was ignoring our earlier encounter. 

“Good morning, Sally, Ellen,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “I trust you both slept well?”

Ellen nodded, her gaze fixed on the pot she was stirring. I cleared my throat, searching for the right words to convey my newfound understanding without arousing suspicion.

“I was thinking,” I began, “that we could continue our reading lessons while you work. It seems a shame to let such valuable time go to waste.”

“That would be most kind of you, Mistress,” Sally replied, her voice tinged with a mixture of gratitude and uncertainty. “But I fear we may not have much time to spare with all the preparations for Christmas.”

As I watched her return to her work, my thoughts drifting to the plight of those less fortunate than even our servants. The image of the bedraggled Irish workers haunted me, their gaunt faces and threadbare garments illuminating the gap persisting in our society. But then…

I remembered the letter I had inadvertently discovered. Our own fortune could tumble at any moment if the worst is believed. Though I believe John and I can survive almost any calamity, I wonder what would happen to our children? And, oh my… our slaves? 

A chill ran through me at the thought, and I clutched my shawl tighter around my shoulders. I gazed out the window at the garden, golden in the sunlight, and tried to imagine it barren, our house empty and silent.

“No,” I whispered to myself, shaking my head to dispel such gloomy notions. “We must have faith.”

I made my way to the parlor where I reached for my Bible, its leather cover worn smooth from years of daily readings. As I opened it, a slip of paper fluttered to the floor–a pressed flower, a forget-me-not from our garden. My sweetheart placed it there as a tender reminder of our love, a gesture I rarely have witnessed in the past few years. 

My heart swelled with affection for my dear husband, and I sent up a prayer for him as he traveled to John Erving’s plantation, summonsed there by the latter’s business associate. Please, Lord, let the tidings be good.

I have kept my knowledge of the letter concerning our debts to myself. Mr. Erving remains my sweetheart’s largest creditor who holds the mortgage to our house. Though heavily in debt last autumn, John returned from his business tour of points south with such a great number of orders for cotton gins, his workers cannot keep up. With the initial payments for the machines in hand, he paid off the most demanding creditors and convinced most of the rest that the business was in dire need of expansion.

But he had not yet met with Mr. Erving.