A Slave of the Shadows, page 6
Entering through the French doors off the library, I heard voices in Father’s study. I recognized Father’s and the other’s, as well—Bowden Armstrong.
“Good day, sir,” I heard Bowden say. “I was hoping to arrange a marriage joining your household with mine.”
Heat flushed through my body. The nerve of this man, that he would think for a second my forgiveness meant I would consider marrying him! I marched to the open door of the study and stepped imperiously inside.
“What are you proposing?” Father asked as he caught sight of me. He raised a hand to stop me from barging in.
I wasn’t sure why I obeyed, but I paused as Bowden turned to look at me.
“Good day, Willow.” He smiled politely, but it faded quickly as he saw my sour expression.
“Hello, Bowden.” I leveled a glare at him as I struggled to restrain my tongue.
“I was going to propose to your father the marriage of Gray and Mary Grace.”
What? Mary Grace? “Oh.”
Bowden frowned, then realization lifted his brow; flustered, he stumbled over his next words to Father. “Wha-what do you say, Mr. Hendricks?”
“I understand the two have an interest in each other, and with our plantations being so close, I think it would be a good union,” Father replied. “You do realize any children born to the two would be the property of Livingston?”
“Yes, sir. I know this union to be the desire of Gray and Mary Grace. Gray is my most trusted right-hand man and I wish to make him happy.”
My father tilted his head as he studied the man before him. “We will make the arrangement sooner rather than later, and I will have a cabin prepared for your slave’s marital visits.”
The men shook on the agreement, and it was as simple as that. Mary Grace was to marry whether she was ready to or not. I left the house through the doors I had used to enter.
Gray had found Mary Grace. I stopped and watched the exchange. Mary Grace squealed and threw her arms around Gray’s neck. He had her approval, and I smiled at her happiness.
WHITNEY BARRY WAS COMING FOR a visit today, and I found myself wishing the morning away in anticipation of her arrival. Days on end spent cooped up on the plantation dulled my mind.
As Whitney’s open carriage turned down the lane, I stepped out onto the veranda and descended the front steps. The fragrance of the red climbing roses infused the air, filling my nose with their heady scent as I walked down the path to greet my guest. A bright smile widened my cheeks as her carriage came to a stop at the carriage stone.
“Whitney, it’s so nice to see you again!”
“I was counting down the days. Plantation life has made me question my sanity.” Whitney waved away the hand her driver offered and step out.
“Mammy has prepared some refreshments and left them in the music room. Afterwards, we can walk the grounds and I will show you around.”
“Sounds lovely.”
As we entered the house, Whitney let out an unladylike whistle. I turned to find Whitney taking in our home with wide eyes. She stopped and brushed her fingers over the head of one of the gold lion statues that stood in the central passage, which Father had purchased while in India. Her eyes traveled up to the crystal chandelier in the middle of the high ceiling, where it caught the light coming in from the windows and refracted it as bright diamonds across the mahogany ceiling and walls.
“Goodness, Willow. I heard talk of how well off you were, but this is a palace!”
My mouth sagged open and heat surged through me at her impolite reference to our financial status. “Whitney Barry! Where did you ever learn your manners?”
Whitney chuckled, brushing me off with a wave of her hand. “Aunt Em taught me all the proper ways of a lady, and I use etiquette when needed, but honestly, I have no use for the uppity airs of ‘ladies and gentlemen.’ You need to learn to relax. This is our life to live and I, for one, will be dictated to by no one.”
I admired her determination to avoid stereotypes; in her, I found a kindred spirit.
“Your father doesn’t breathe down your neck about your untraditional ways?”
She shrugged half-heartedly. “Art Barry is simply a man who conceived me with my mother. His heart is black and his mind is twisted. If it wasn’t for the twins, I would get as far away from him as possible.” Whitney’s shoulders slumped as she spoke of the reality of her situation.
Something else we had in common—our relationship with our fathers.
In the music room, Mammy had neatly arranged bite-size cakes and tea biscuits on a golden platter to accompany our Earl Grey tea, and left it all on the small cherry-wood table in the corner, where we could look through a large window draped with red- and gold-striped curtains at the lush gardens.
Whitney took a long sip of her tea, and then another. “This tea is delightful. Where did you obtain it from?”
“Father imports it from London. You can purchase it from the general store in town. But I will be sure to have some delivered to you.”
Whitney smiled her appreciation. “I’m so happy to have met you. I never took much to girls I’ve met in the past, but you are quite different.”
“I assure you, the feeling is mutual.”
“I couldn’t help but notice there are no pictures of your family hanging on the walls.”
“We have but a few,” I replied. “One is in the parlor, over the fireplace; it’s Father and me when I was a small girl. And there is one of me in the library that Father had painted when I was fifteen.”
“Nothing of your mother?”
“No.” I’d once asked Father this question, but he had deflected it and I’d never received an answer.
“Doesn’t it seem strange to you? I mean, people generally keep portraits of their family and ancestors on their walls.”
“I know little of my mother. What little I learned of her came from the slaves who were here when she was alive. Father never speaks of her. When I try to ask about her, he gets agitated. I have learned not to speak her name.”
“Do you remember her at all?”
“No, but I do know from Mammy that I was a few years old when she died. Mammy did say I was her joy, and she would carry me on her hip for hours and sing to me. I try not to think of her too much, as the pain becomes unbearable.” I lowered my eyes to my cup. “I used to ask God why he took her, a parent who loved me, and left me with one who barely tolerates me.” My voice broke with emotion.
“Forgive me for bringing it up.” She lightly grasped my hand.
“I’m fine, don’t worry about it. We can relate to each other in the yearning for the love of a mother and the ache of being left with fathers who don’t know we exist.”
“Though I haven’t met your father, Willow, I’ve only heard good about him.”
“I witness this good. But why can he not give the same kindness to his own daughter?” I had tried to figure this out most of my life.
“I hope for your sake that he will somehow learn to give you the love you seek. Please find peace in the fact that there is goodness in him somewhere, unlike my father.”
A cloud of melancholy settled over us both.
Knowing I needed to turn this visit around, I swept my arms wide in a grand gesture. “All right, let’s rid ourselves of these heavy thoughts! Let me show you the grounds.”
People loved the peace and beauty Livingston provided, and I wanted my first visit with Whitney to be a success. We spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon laughing and covering every inch of the plantation.
Before Whitney stepped into her carriage to head home, she turned to me and said, “Willow, I find that in you, I’ve found a true friend.”
Her words touched my heart.
“Of all the girls I met while away at school half my life, I never felt a connection to anyone until you came into my life with your backward ways. I believe you to be part woman and part man,” I said. Whitney shook with laughter.
We promised to visit each other again soon as she climbed into the carriage.
“All of this…” she looked around “…should fill you with pride. Your slaves are happy and, I daresay, almost content. This should make you see the good in your father. Bad men don’t run this kind of plantation.”
I stood at the end of the path until her carriage was long gone, evaluating her words.
Whitney’s Story
SHE HAD RECENTLY CELEBRATED HER thirteenth year when her mother died. After his wife’s death, her father disappeared for long periods of time, and Whitney was left to fend for herself. Art Barry had been a drunk from her earliest memories. He would often come home drunk and, like a madman, turn the house upside down, destroying the precious few possessions they had. When his intoxicated eyes fixed on Whitney, her mother would step between them, taking the brunt of his violence.
Bella Barry had been born with a compromised immune system, leaving her weak and feeble. Doctors said Bella wouldn’t reach the age of thirty. After the beatings, her already depleted body would leave her bedridden for days.
Bella took a turn for the worse and the doctor ordered strict bed rest, informing Whitney her mother wouldn’t recover. They couldn’t afford a nurse to care for her mother around the clock, as required, so Whitney dropped out of school to care for her. Art was absent more often, leaving Whitney as the sole caregiver for her mother. Whitney took up permanent residence in a rocker by her mother’s bedside, and spent hours reading to her. She savored the few precious hours her mother was alert. Whitney would climb into her mother’s bed after she had fallen asleep, snuggling against her and whispering her love. She cried herself to sleep many nights, filled with worry and fear about what life would be like without her mother, the only sure person in her life.
When the day came, her mother opened her eyes and smiled faintly at her. Whitney knew her condition had changed yet again. Her skin was hot to the touch and a gurgling sound was coming from her chest. Bella lifted a trembling hand to motion her daughter closer.
“Yes, Mother?” Whitney said, taking her mother’s hand between hers.
“My beautiful Whitney, my time on this earth is almost up,” she whispered.
Whitney remembered holding her breath until her chest felt as if it was going to burst. Her head filled with pain from the lack of oxygen.
“You must care for yourself now, darling. You can’t stay with your father; he isn’t right in the mind.” A tear escaped her eye and she closed her eyes as she continued. “I’m sorry for bringing you into a world where he is your father. Never forget my love for you. You’re the greatest blessing in my life. I wrote a letter to my sister Emily, and requested she take you in when I’m gone. She will care for you as if you are her own—” She’d stiffened and moaned as pain wracked her body.
Whitney administered the black drops prescribed by the doctor, and soon her mother’s body relaxed. The two held each other until her mother fell off into a sleep from which she never awakened.
Whitney was left to contact the coroner to come and take her mother’s body. There was no funeral, as her father had isolated her mother from the world. In the weeks that followed, Art Barry never returned. Whitney sent a letter to her Aunt Em in New York, hoping she would arrive quickly, and in the meantime she cared for herself, finding creative ways to make the meager supply of food in the house last; but with the lack of nutrition she became lethargic.
When the knock sounded at the door, she slowly shuffled toward it. Standing on the front steps was a smiling Aunt Em, there to rescue her from this life of loneliness and misery. One glance at the condition of her niece, and her smile faded. Whitney tumbled into her arms and sobbed, letting out all the worry, fear, and pain she felt. Aunt Em had soothed her that day with the promise that she was going to care for her and she would never leave her.
Her aunt was an independent, self-made woman who had never married. In Whitney’s younger years, the few times her father had permitted her aunt to visit were happy times, and Whitney remembered her mother’s laughter, frequent and light with joy. Emily, unlike her sister, could hold her own. Whitney believed her aunt’s strong personality intimidated her father, prompting him to cut off all visits from her.
Whitney thought of her mother and longed for her often, though life with her aunt was better than she could ever dream. Never having children of her own, Emily doted on Whitney. Whitney’s new lifestyle involved a grand social life, and her aunt made sure she never wanted for anything. She learned to be a proper lady in every way. She aspired one day to be a woman of worth like her aunt. She promised herself she would never allow a man like her father in her life. No one would control her life or lay a hand on her again. She blocked him from her memories, allowing herself to believe her life before coming to live with her aunt had consisted of only herself and her mother.
Around her sixteenth birthday, her father came back into her life. She was relaxing with a good book in her room when she heard loud voices downstairs. Dread rose in her at the sound of his voice. Pulling on the strength and courage she had developed, she left her room and stopped at the top of the staircase to listen.
At that height and distance, she could push down the desire to flee as her eyes came to rest on her father. He looked like he had aged ten years. He still wore his hair brushed back and tied with a black ribbon, but now it was fully white. His rounded belly protruded over his narrow hips. Aunt Em and he stood in the foyer, engaged in a heated argument.
“I won’t allow it!” her aunt shouted at him. She always spoke her mind to her brother-in-law and that day had been no different.
“She is my daughter and you have no rights!” he snapped back, his face flushed red.
“You abandoned her. It was Bella’s wish for her to live with me. For Pete’s sake, Art, she is almost grown and has thrived under my care. If you have any love in that cruel heart of yours for your daughter, leave her be.”
As Whitney made her way down the stairs, they both became aware of her presence. Art looked in awe at his grown daughter as she swept down the staircase, carrying herself with elegance and grace. She was no longer the tall, lanky, fair-skinned kid with freckles. Though her skin remained fair, it now glowed with a creamy peach complexion. Whitney had blossomed into a striking woman and mirrored her mother’s looks for the most part, but she did inherit her father’s height.
“Whitney, how I’ve missed you!” His high-pitched voice cracked. He crossed the short distance and forcefully crushed her to him in an embrace. Surprisingly, he did not reek of alcohol, the usual perfume she had become accustomed to near him.
What could he possibly be doing here? She felt the old, familiar panic rising.
“I have come to take you home.” He grinned, revealing a half-toothless smile from too many drunken fights. He left his arm around her shoulders and held her next to him.
She questioned her aunt with her eyes. Her aunt’s mouth was pursed and her eyes flashed with anger at her brother-in-law.
Turning her from her aunt’s visual daggers, he placed his hands on Whitney’s shoulders, holding her at arm’s length and inspecting every inch of her. She stared blankly back. “I’ve come to take you home, my dear,” he repeated.
Whitney managed to wriggle out of his grasp. As his words sank in, she grew angry. He thought he could waltz back into her life after all these years and lay claim to her! She was sure of one thing: she never wanted to live under the same roof with this man again.
“Aunt Em has given me a life here, and I do not wish to live with you.” She moved to stand by her aunt.
Her father’s pleasant façade vanished. “I’m not asking, Whitney.”
It was the old Art Barry who retrieved a cigar from his high-end waistcoat pocket and bit off the end, spitting it on the floor. He lit the cigar and struck an arrogant pose while taking a few puffs. Blowing out the last cloud of white smoke, he paused for effect, the cigar held several inches from his mouth, before saying, “You have a new stepmother and we have twins together.”
Not sure if she’d heard him correctly, she asked, “Twins?”
“You have a three-year-old brother and sister.”
Whitney kept her expression blank as she took in the shocking news. A stepmother and siblings? She had always longed for siblings.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Get your things ready so we can be on our way.” He headed for the door and without so much as a goodbye, he closed it briskly behind him.
Whitney’s head spun with the news. Feeling her knees weaken, she sank onto the bottom step of the staircase.
Defeated, her aunt lowered herself down beside her, glaring at the closed door. When she turned to Whitney, sadness softened her face. “I promised you I’d protect you from that man. I never dreamed he would come back. I thought he would be glad to be rid of the responsibility of a child. I don’t understand why he would come looking after all these years.”
Whitney had no answer. She’d never wished to have him back in her life and never thought she would have to consider it. “I know this isn’t your doing, but it seems to be out of your control. Maybe he has changed?”
Aunt Em scoffed, her expression dark with disapproval. “There is no way Art Barry has changed. A man like him is incapable of change.”
It didn’t matter what questions they both had. As he’d promised, Art Barry showed up first thing in the morning in a carriage that drew up at their front door. As the driver loaded her trunks, Whitney clung to her aunt as if trying to soak in the love and protection of her embrace.
“I will write to you every week. I want to thank you for picking me up and caring for me when I was all alone in this world. I won’t forget your love.” Whitney gazed into her aunt’s face, memorizing every angle and nuance, for the future held no promise that they would see each other again.
Her aunt’s eyes glittered with tears. “Whitney, my love, you filled my life with purpose. Bella would be proud. Don’t forget I’m always here for you, and you are loved more than you will ever know,” she whispered as she embraced Whitney. “Stay strong. Don’t let him break you.”
