A Slave of the Shadows, page 7
“I love you, Auntie,” she said.
“I love you too, my precious girl. Until we meet again.”
As they drove away, Whitney waved frantically until her aunt was no more than a speck in the distance. She did not want to look at the man sitting across from her. He ignored her for the whole trip.
When they arrived in Boston, childhood memories of her hometown flooded Whitney’s mind, and she longed for her mother, or the security of her life with Aunt Em. She reckoned neither love nor security waited for her here.
The carriage came to a stop in front of a three-story brick townhouse in one of Boston’s affluent neighborhoods.
“This is home,” her father said proudly.
Whitney studied the striking house before her. She doubted he had acquired a home of this magnitude by honest means.
The front door opened and a servant in his fifties started down the steps to greet them. Her father, impatient at his slow pace, opened the carriage door and jumped out to walk toward the front steps without any consideration for his daughter.
“Joseph, have Whitney’s things brought to her room,” he ordered as he strode past the man and disappeared into the house.
Whitney remained unmoving in her seat.
“Miss?” Joseph held out a white-gloved hand to her.
She fought the pressing impulse to run and keep running until she was back at the refuge of her aunt’s. She reached out, taking the hand he offered, and stepped out of the carriage. “Thank you, Joseph,” she said politely.
Surprise crossed his face, swiftly concealed.
Whitney climbed the stairs and paused at the front door before entering her new home. The foyer was empty of life and no one came to greet her. She wandered through the main floor and ended back at the foyer, having seen no sign of her father.
Seeing her standing there, hesitant about where to go or what to do as he lowered her last trunk to the floor, Joseph said, “Follow me, Miss Whitney.” He ambled to the rear of the house and opened a set of French doors, which led to a small, enclosed garden.
Squeals of laughter and little voices hit her as she stepped into the garden. Joseph led her along a cobblestone path to where her father sat at a wrought-iron table, speaking to a woman sitting with her back to Whitney. The two small children chasing a ball around the path drew Whitney’s attention. The boy had her father’s dark hair and a chubby face. The girl, blonde like the woman with her back to her, was petite and dainty, unlike her brother.
“Miss Whitney is here, Mrs. Barry,” Joseph said, bowing to the woman, who did not turn to acknowledge them. Joseph, apparently accustomed to this behavior, excused himself and left.
The woman turned to regard her with hard, dark eyes. Her features were harsh, with high cheekbones, a thin, pointed nose, and a stern mouth that, if the deep creases on either side were any indication, was a normal expression. “Well, you’re as tall a man and straight as a beanpole. Not much to you, I see,” she said. Whitney would later realize that the woman was jealous that her father had had a child with another woman.
Whitney’s father sat in his chair with a smug look on his face, indifferent to his wife’s rude treatment of his daughter.
Whitney knew she needed to stand up for herself now, or this woman would make a habit of running her over. “Well, I see your parents must have been part raven, with a face like yours!” she retorted angrily.
Her father had taken a sip of his tea; he coughed and leaned forward, sputtering. Whitney noticed he was watching his wife for her reaction. Could it be her father was intimidated by his wife?
She rose and stood erect, which left her a few inches shorter than Whitney. Reaching out, she struck Whitney across the face. The sudden attack took Whitney by surprise, but she recovered quickly. Never again would she be mistreated by anyone. As her stepmother raised her hand to strike her a second time, Whitney grabbed her arm and pinned it to her side.
“Don’t you ever lay a hand on me again, you little witch!”
Sophie Barry stumbled back, surprised at Whitney’s boldness, and shot a look at her husband.
Her father barked at her, “That’s enough, Whitney. Go to your room and unpack. Joseph will show you the way. Now leave us.”
Whitney dropped an exaggerated curtsy and walked away. Behind her, her stepmother yelled at her father, “Why did you insist on bringing that ill-mannered girl here?”
“You know why. The twins exhaust you and with her here, you will get your freedom.”
Ah, his reason for bringing her here had become clear. He hadn’t missed her or even wanted her. She was brought there to mother the twins, who had dared burden the two of them with being born.
Over the next four years, the two were rarely home. They traveled the world on business, they claimed. The full responsibility of raising the twins fell to Whitney. The twins were still young enough not to be tainted by their parents’ ways. She loved them like her own and they began to depend on her. When their parents were home, it was Whitney they came to for comfort when they woke from bad dreams. It was Whitney they sought out when they were hurt.
Her time spent with Aunt Em had taught her courage and allowed her to discover her own strength. Art and Sophie Barry learned to tread lightly around her, for they needed her. As long as she cared for the children and their absent parents provided money, the arrangement worked for all of them.
Their adventures were cut short when Sophie became gravely ill and had to return home. The doctor visited the house and diagnosed her with cholera; he told Art Barry it was best to send Whitney and the twins away immediately, and ordered Sophie quarantined. Whitney and the children took the next train to New York, where they were to stay with her aunt. No word was sent ahead of them, and Whitney was unsure how Aunt Em would feel about caring for the twins.
Aunt Em was not home when they arrived, but the housemaid appeared more than happy to see Whitney, and let them in. Her aunt was expected in a few days, the maid told her. Whitney longed to stay in New York, but she knew she could never leave her brother and sister.
She was curled up in the library in front of the fireplace reading when the front door opened. Whitney heard the maid greet her aunt and leapt up to run out and see her.
“Aunt Em!” Whitney flew into her arms, kissing her face over and over in her excitement.
Though stunned to find her there, Aunt Em laughed under Whitney’s affectionate attack. “Dear girl, what are you doing here?”
“Sophie has cholera and the doctor told Father to send us away.” She released her aunt and stepped back to regard her. She hadn’t aged a day in the last four years.
“Us?”
Whitney shifted uncomfortably and looked at her aunt with beseeching eyes. “The twins have come with me. They have no one but me.”
“It’s all right, dear. I know how much you have grown to love those children.” She removed her hat and, taking Whitney’s arm, retired to the sitting room.
The months spent with her aunt were glorious, and the twins came to adore her. The happiness they found together ended when their father sent word that Sophie had died, and he had sold the townhouse; the family would be moving to Charleston, South Carolina, where he had purchased a plantation. Whitney was not sure how her father had moved from rags to riches, but she was certain it wasn’t through legal methods.
Whitney and her aunt once again exchanged goodbyes, and the three siblings made the long journey south, leaving the city life behind. The twins cuddled against Whitney as the train left New York, en route to a new and uncertain life with an unpredictable father.
THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, THE SLAVES’ one day off, Mary Grace and Gray jumped the broom. Mary Grace wore a simple, white cotton dress and a lace veil held in place with a crown of daisies. Earlier that morning I’d applied shea butter to her long, raven-black hair and brushed it until it was smooth and shiny. She’d pulled it back from her heart-shaped face and held it with a simple pin. She was the image of a beautiful, glowing bride.
Father forbade me from attending the wedding, as it was a slave celebration, he said. I spent the afternoon in my room, where my window provided the best view of the slave quarters.
On an old wooden table stood the five-tier wedding cake that I’d insisted Mammy let me help her make. It was white to honor the purity of the day, with each tier decorated with edible flowers in shades of pink and mauve. People danced and clapped to the fiddler’s songs, celebrating in genuine happiness for the couple. Their joyous laughter filled the evening air.
I watched as Mary Grace lovingly kissed her groom, then let the curtain fall and leaned back on the window seat, feeling a little sad at how things would change between us, now that Mary Grace was a wife. How time had flown! We were no longer children, and with age came expectations. I was concerned about what Father would try to do about my unwed situation.
With the nightgown I’d purchased for Mary Grace for her wedding night tucked under my arm, I headed downstairs.
Mammy entered the house from the celebration, her face aglow with happiness. “Et’s a blessed day, angel gal, a blessed day!” she sang.
“That it is.”
“Dat Gray will make my gal happy.”
“He is a good man, and dashingly handsome,” I said with a smile.
“Dat he is, chile!” Mammy chuckled, her large body shaking. Noticing the package I held under my arm, she asked, “What do you have dere?”
“It’s a new nightgown for Mary Grace.”
“You’re a good gal, Miss Willow. A real fine gal. You best git movin’ if you are wantin’ to catch her ’fore she leaves. Your pappy done gave her a pass. She gwine to Gray’s cabin on de Armstrong Plantation for de night.”
I scooted out the door, hoping to catch Mary Grace before they left.
Finding Mary Grace seated upon Gray’s horse and Gray about to swing himself up, I called out, “Mary Grace!” and waved, trying to grab their attention. Gathering my dress, I ran toward them.
Breathless, I stopped and just soaked in the joy radiating from their faces. I smiled as I gazed into Mary Grace’s dancing eyes and held up the package. “A gift for you.” She held the gift to her chest and thanked me.
I smiled fondly at Gray. “Congratulations on marrying the most beautiful woman in all of Charleston.”
“Don’t I know et.” He grinned.
“You’d best run along.” I gave Mary Grace’s hand a squeeze and stepped back.
Gray mounted up and the cloudless, moonlit night swirled them away.
Mary Grace’s Story
MARY GRACE COULDN’T REMEMBER A time when Willow wasn’t in her life.
When they were small girls, she’d found Willow hiding in the closet of her room, sobbing. Concerned, she knelt beside her and asked her what was wrong. Wiping her tears with the back of her hand, Willow told her what devastated her so. Willow had asked her father if Mary Grace could have a bed like hers in her room. Her father had grabbed her roughly by the arm and shook her, saying Mary Grace was simply a toy to keep her out of his hair, and not to forget that.
Mary Grace’s thoughts ran forward to a time when they were ten years old or so; they were having a tea party in the sitting room. Mammy had made them little sandwiches and cakes to eat with their hot lemon and honey water.
Willow held her teacup with her pinkie finger pointed out and said in a grown-up tone, “Miss Mary Grace, I do suggest we do this more often.”
“Why, yes, Miss Willow, I believe that is a splendid idea.” Mary Grace lifted her chin slightly. Taking her cue, Willow straightened her posture to make herself appear taller.
“It’s been a delightful afternoon, if I must say so myself.” Willow dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin.
“That it has, my dear,” Mary Grace said.
They looked at each other, not sure what to say next or which words would make them seem like sophisticated ladies. After a few moments of stale silence, Willow sighed and dramatically slid down on the sofa, flipping her head against the back of it. “This adult playing is exhausting.”
Mary Grace sighed with relief as she let her shoulders relax. “Yes, it’s boring. What should we play now?”
“Let’s go to my room and I will read to you,” Willow suggested.
Willow loved to read; she said it helped her escape to a different world. Mary Grace cherished the times when they were in Willow’s room; they would lay on Willow’s luxurious bed and she would read to Mary Grace for hours. In Willow’s books, they would travel the world, face many obstacles, and enjoy many adventures.
That afternoon Willow sat on her window seat. Mary Grace stretched out on the floor on her stomach, her ankles crossed in the air and her mind whirling with excitement as Willow’s smooth voice poured out the words of The Three Musketeers.
She hadn’t noticed that Willow had stopped reading until she said, “I have a brilliant idea, Mary Grace. Why don’t I teach you to read?” She bounced up with enthusiasm.
Mary Grace was astounded by her sudden suggestion, and apprehensive, as she knew it was strictly forbidden; a slave would be put to death if anyone found out. “I don’t know, Miss Willow, your father won’t like that. He already thinks we be joined at the hip.”
“Not ‘we be,’ Mary Grace, you must say ‘we are.’ If you are going to be an educated black woman, you must speak with proper grammar so people learn to respect you,” Willow said, conviction shining in her dark green eyes.
“Your father would be angry if he found out,” Mary Grace said again, but she knew her expression betrayed her anticipation.
“Well, we will keep it our secret, then.” The headstrong Willow had made up her mind.
Every day afterward, she dedicated herself to teaching Mary Grace to read. Willow said she was a brilliant student and caught on fast.
For a slave girl, Mary Grace was happy and had never known what fear truly was in her life on the Livingston Plantation. Besides a few trips into town with Willow, she had never been off the plantation. Mammy prohibited her from getting a pass to visit friends on the surrounding plantations. Mammy had been the best mama a girl could ever ask for, and Mary Grace didn’t want to cause her extra worry or stress, so she abided by her wishes.
In her teenage years, though, Mary Grace became frustrated at the restrictions Mammy placed on her life. In her mind, she believed Mammy wanted to make her miserable. One day, after Mammy’s refusal to let her go with her friends, she cried until her eyes were empty of tears, but Mammy stood firm.
“You don’t want me to be happy!” Mary Grace wailed.
“Yes, chile, dat is what I do. I set out every morn to ruin your life,” she said sarcastically, and threw her hands in the air with as much drama as her daughter.
“Mama, please, I must go. All the others say I’m a spoiled black princess and you keep me tied to your apron strings. I’m the laughing stock of the whole plantation.” She repeated what she’d heard the old gossipy hags say on washing days. “‘Oh, look at Miss Fancy Pants, too good for the laks of us. All kept up in dat big house, hidden away lak she is a china doll.’” Mary Grace would snatch the laundry from them to hang on the line and stick out her tongue as she left. She knew it wasn’t polite or right, but neither were their mean words.
“Mama, how do you suppose I’ll ever marry or give you grandbabies if you don’t allow me to go to these dances and gatherings?”
“Chile, de folkses over on de Armstrong Plantation shows up here at leas’ once a month. You will not go unwed.” Mammy turned the dough with a little extra force; the kitchen house echoed the loud smack. Her daughter’s whining had started to wear on her.
Mary Grace felt remorse as she saw Mammy’s shoulders sag. She was a good mother, and Mary Grace couldn’t imagine having any other. “I’m sorry, Mama. I don’t understand why you hold me so close. Why do you fear so, Mama?”
Her mama started to knead the dough harder. “I jus’…” She stopped kneading and turned to Mary Grace, her shoulders curled forward and her head lowered. “I guess et be time to have de talk wid you. I knowed one day it would come.” She sat down with a thud on the wooden bench at the end of the small table.
Mary Grace sucked in her breath as dread filled her; her intuition told her what Mammy was about to say was going to be life-changing.
“I was taken from what was left of my family jus’ ’fore I had my fust bleed, and sold at auction. De man who bought me had eyes full of lust. His eyes et up my body as he luked me over from head to toe. I ’member holding myself real tight-lak, tryin’ to cover my new buddin’ breasts. I seed what mens wid dat luk in deir eyes done to young gals ’fore.
“I walked de five miles to my new home wid de other slaves purchased dat day, tied to de back of his horse. A home dat would become my nightmare.” She hung her head as she twisted her floured hands in her lap. “Masa Adams made advances toward me over de next few years, but I allus managed to escape.
“Happiness entered my life when de masa brought a slave home dat catch me eye. Dere be somepin’ ’bout this black as coal man dat drew me in. He be an African prince dey called Big John. He was a gentle giant. My walls came down and I was able to love again. We came to love each other and as de masa became more desperate to have me, I know I don’t want my fust time to be lak dat. I begged Big John to marry me and make my fust time wid a man be one of love. I married me my African prince, under de stars before God.
“Den came de night I wasn’t so lucky—de masa catch me alone. He took me with force. De pain I felt as he drove his manhood into my body parts was de worst thing you can ever imagine. I bled for days and my insides were torn and damaged. Big John feared I may never have chillun.” She lifted her face, which was filled with an unimaginable agony, and the tears poured down her cheeks as she relived the rape. “I begged God to save me from dis torture. When no savin’ came over de next few years, my prayers turned to axin’ de Lord Almighty to take my life. ’Most nightly he tuk me in whatever way he could. I larned to never ’low my mind to go to de pain of what was being done to me, I larned not to fight back, ’cause et be de fight dat drove him wild wid lust.
