Shae nodded, ignoring the temptation to roll her eyes at her friend’s mother
. “I so value your compassion,” she lied quietly. “I was hoping I might stay here for a night or two.”
Cynthia bounced into the room, her blue eyes shining with excitement
. “Oh, Shae. I’m so sorry. You must share the details with us. How horrible you must be feeling, with your future all in ruins.”
Shae stared, dumbfounded
. Was this the same young woman she had last week helped to repot plants? The same friend whose eyes teared over root-bound ferns? She wondered that foam didn’t drip from Cynthia’s chops, she seemed so ravenous for gossip. Shae sagged into the carved chair again, like a sail devoid of wind.
Cynthia settled into an overstuffed sofa
. Her plump behind, beneath its bustle, made quite a dent. Mrs. Browning lowered her stylishly padded rear beside her daughter’s. Both leaned forward, like a pair of foxes over an unattended, fluffy chick.
Shae felt sick
. She’d long ago realized that Mrs. Browning wished her daughter to dump her socially less fortunate companion. What Shae hadn’t wanted to admit was her friend’s true nature, which was growing more apparent by the hour.
“There’s not very much to tell,” Shae shrugged
. “I simply couldn’t bring myself to go last evening. All those people and their gossip . . .”
Mrs. Browning, the lead gossip, nearly beamed
. “It’s really just as well, dear. Certainly, you aren’t up to traveling within
that
social sphere.”
Her
social sphere, she meant. Even so, Shae didn’t care to argue that the whole idea bored her. Neither of the Brownings would believe her anyway.
“There’s a rumor about that Ethan asked you not to come last night, that the real split occurred beforehand,” Cynthia reported.
Shae laughed aloud, despite her misery. So, her “betters,” unable to believe that she would turn her nose up at a Lowell, had constructed a more palatable version of events. Remembering her aunt’s opinions concerning Cynthia, she wondered if the tale began with her so-called friend. Or, more likely, with her mother, since Cynthia had never excelled at anything as creative as inventing her own stories.
“I really don’t care what anyone thinks was the cause,” Shae said, disappointing both of the women
. “Right now I’m more concerned with having someplace to spend the night until my father settles down.” She would never trust these rumormongers with the true reason she’d departed home.
Cynthia’s eyes cut toward her mother’s and the two exchanged an inscrutable look.
“We’d simply
love
to have you, dear,” Mrs. Browning crooned, “but we’re having people over in a little while. Some of the same people you no doubt wish to avoid.”
“The Lowells?” Shae asked
. Neither woman was dressed as for a party, and nothing in the house bespoke it. She realized they were lying, but she decided to see if feigning ignorance would gain her anything. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay out of sight.”
“I’m afraid, under the circumstances, it wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“We truly wish we could,” Cynthia chimed in. She glanced once more at her mother. “But maybe it would be a good idea if we weren’t seen together for awhile.”
Until she captured Ethan, she was saying, Shae presumed
. They were banishing her permanently from their presence and her last toehold in polite society. Shae cursed herself for the hurt that washed over her. She’d been so foolish, so naïve, not to expect this. Still, the betrayal stung, and she found herself remembering Phillip Payton on the beach this evening, the pain in his hazel eyes because of Ethan’s mysterious breach of faith.
Standing abruptly, Shae spun on her heel and limped toward the door
. Unable to resist the impulse, she turned and blurted toward her former friend, “Ethan Lowell will never have you! He thinks your behind might sink the
El Dorado
.”
Cynthia’s mouth dropped, and her mother’s face pinched itself into a pucker.
Shae glared at Mrs. Browning. “And he finds it odd that you so loathe me, since Cynthia tells everyone your own father plays piano in a house of ill-fame in some frontier hell-hole.”
Mother turned on daughter, horror etched in every wrinkle on her face. “What is it you’ve been saying about me?”
“I neve
r
” Cynthia protested, though she had. She often laughed with others behind her mother’s back at the woman’s vain pretensions, as if she hadn’t inherited the lot.
“Come now, Cynthia
. Don’t lie to your mother. I’m sure she’ll find your party jokes amusing, don’t you think?” Shae stood and offered the pair a deep, sarcastic curtsy. “If you’ll excuse me, I must be going.”
She doubted that either Browning woman heard her leave the room
. They were too busy shouting accusations and denials.
“Miss Shae,” a frail voice whispered as she moved toward the front door.
Shae turned toward Margaret. Mischief brightened the old woman’s clouded eyes.
“For shame!” she scolded, catching Shae into a surprisingly robust embrace
. “Setting those two hens peckin’ at each other. It’ll take these Irish arms a half a day to sweep up their pinfeathers.”
Margaret kissed her cheek and then said, “May the road rise to meet you.”
“May the wind always be at your back,” Shae continued, as her mother had once taught her. Knowing she might not see the Brownings’ servant again, might not hear that voice that so reminded her of Mother’s, she couldn’t bear to finish the old blessing.
No matter, for as she left the house for the last time, Margaret called the last line after her
. “May God hold you in the palm of his hand.”
Without an idea of where she might turn for shelter, Mary Shae fled into the soft darkness of the starry, Gulf Coast night
. But not on horseback, for Delilah, too impatient to wait for her mistress, had somehow pulled loose a rein and trotted home.
And horrid stillness first invades the ear,
And in that silence we the tempest fear.
John Dryden
Astraea Redux
, 1.7
* Friday, September 16, 1875 *
Eva’s clattering woke Shae before Friday dawned on her back alley shanty
. “Up, you lazybones!” she called out to her children, three long-limbed boys of thirteen, twelve, and ten.
The boys boiled out of the only other room at once, like a nest of ants disturbed by a horse hoof
. The eldest,
Abraham, grabbed a pail and ran outside to pump the morning water
. He pulled up a loose suspender as he moved. His eyes, dark as black coffee, flicked suspiciously toward the intruder who had displaced him and his brothers. The younger boys stared at Shae outright.
“Why you stay in our house if you got such a fine place, like my mama say?” asked the middle boy
. Shae thought that he was Jacob, but she often confused him with the youngest, Jeremiah.
The shortest boy piped in, “Yeah, Mama say you rich folk
. Got a whole bed to yourself.”
The three boys normally slept together on a pallet here, in the room Shae had usurped
. She sat up, letting the threadbare, beige blanket puddle around her waist. Her gray waist, she noted, looked more wrinkled than she’d imagined possible. She tried not to wonder what sort of dead animal her hair must now resemble.
“That’s enough a your lip,” Eva scolded before Shae could think of a response
. “Now y’all get on outside an’ wash up.”
The boys muttered under their breath, but did as she had asked
. Eva poured a measure of cornmeal into a chipped bowl that sat on a rough-hewn table.
“Them boys right,” she told Shae
. “You can’t stay here. People be talkin’ bout a white girl in this house if they sees you, or if one of them boys flap his lips. Folks real curious, you hear? An’ if your auntie find out I got you stashed here, I through workin’ in that house.”
Shae hadn’t thought about what a risk this must be for Eva
. She had never considered, either, just how little the black woman had to lose. Beside the table, a pair of termite-damaged benches looked to be the only furniture the family owned. A few scant articles of clothing hung on pegs along a weathered wall. Nowhere did Shae see a single object meant to lend cheer to the place. These four people, each one born a slave, survived on almost nothing, yet last night Eva had let her come inside. Awe washed over Sha
e
and shame. Did Eva see her as a spoiled rich girl, weeping over trivialities?
“I’m sorry I came here last night,” Shae offered as she patted the carpetbag beside her
. “It’s just tha
t
”
“
It just that you got nowhere else to go an’ it was dark.” Eva poured a bit of sugar from a small sack into the meal. When her eldest carried in the water, she took a dipperful to complete her batter. She inclined her head, a signal for the boy to go back out. After he left, she turned to glance down at her guest.
The small, black woman’s laughter rolled off the thin, walls
. “Miss Shae, you look right pitiful this morning, laid out on this black woman’s floor. Don’t you mind my troubles. Since you here, I figure you got plenty of your own. You just try an’ put yourself to rights a bit while them boys is cleanin’ up. I’ll cook up this Johnnycake real quick.” She poured the mixture into a cast-iron pan and put it on the wood stove.
Shae watched her work, a Negro woman whose muscles had been knotted by hard work
. Eva’s husband, who had learned the blacksmith’s trade while still a slave, had once had good prospects, but his death had trapped her in this tiny shanty. A widow with three children, she must have years ago accepted the mean truth that working for the Rowans, or a family like them, would be her lot in life.
Shae felt she’d like to say something to the woman, something that would make it clear that Eva’s selfless act had pushed beyond their boundaries, had made them into friends
.
“Thank you so much, Eva
. I can’t tell you what this meant to me. I couldn’
t
”
“
You don’t have to ‘splain to me,” she answered. “I don’t want no more to do with it.”
Shae wanted to continue, but the gulf of years and race and poverty between the two women was too great
. Eva had offered all she could, and pushing further would be wrong. So instead of speaking, Shae followed her advice and tried to make herself presentable. After finger-combing her hair, she repinned the curls into a simple chignon, the only style she could manage without a looking glass. As for her waist and skirt, no amount of smoothing mattered one iota. She looked as rumpled as one of the harlots that strolled along the wrong end of LeGrand Street.
While the scent of baking crowded the small house, Shae’s mind darted back to the glimpses she had caught of those sad creatures the time she’d accidentally driven through the seamy part of town
. Their skirts, too brief to hide the artfully flashed ankles; their wild hair, streaming dyed and free about their shoulders; their obscene, lolling gaits. Snatches of lewd songs, too, had floated up to Shae, and language that had scorched her ears. She couldn’t get Delilah and the gig home fast enough! She’d been in such haste, she had cut the corner too quickly and upset the buggy.
All because she’d been offended by the sights and sounds of what might now become her fate
. Oh, she had no intention of ending up in one of Port Providence’s bordellos or of lurking in back alleys and calling out to strange men who passed by. But wouldn’t accepting Ethan’s offer amount to the same thing, after a fashion? Still, with no money, food, or clothing, she wondered if she had another option, short of running home.
Maybe she could find a decent job
. After all, last year Trenton Hargraves, the well-known New Orleans jeweler, had written her a letter offering employment after he had seen some of her work. King had torn it up, but Shae thought if she could somehow get to the Louisiana city, maybe she, like Eva, could scrape out an honest living on her own. All she needed was the money to pay her passage and a place to stay.
But right now the difficulty of raising cash wasn’t her main worry
. Last night, she’d been too confused, too frightened to ask the questions that mattered most to her. But this morning, as dawn’s light filtered through the room’s sole, grimy window, Shae knew she must confront Lucius. She realized that if she were ever going to break free of her father, she must summon the courage to learn her mother’s fate.
If she couldn’t bear to know it, she might live her whole life dodging terror, groveling for whatever rare boons King might care to bestow.
*
Phillip, still in his white bathrobe, stepped onto his front porch to fetch the morning paper
. He had long been in the habit of beginning his day with a cup of coffee and the latest events of the city and the world beyond.
This morning, however, he could barely force his eyes to focus on headlines trumpeting next year’s centennial celebration and Custer’s expedition into the Black Hills
. He doubted he’d remember a single word of newsprint. Not after spending nearly all last night awake.
Again and again, he’d wondered if this problem concerning the black workers had cost him his fiancée
. Why not? It seemed that the decision had driven everyone else away from him. From the white laborers to the elite of Port Providence, everyone except his sisters had abandoned him. Even his out-of-state contracts were starting to be affected by the long arm of social disapproval. He began to wonder why he’d been so stubborn, if he should reconsider even now.
Ridiculous, he realized
. There could be no turning back. Even if the whole world couldn’t see that he was right, he knew. Even now, after all the hell that it had caused him, he could find no flaw in the cogent arguments of George Sayres, the remarkable black man who’d come to him early in the summer. If emancipation was to elevate the Negro, Sayres explained, it must be coupled with the opportunities that came with decent jobs.
Even now, Phillip knew he would never break his word to the well-spoken Sayres
. If this was what it took to find out his fiancée and friends were false, so be it. Phillip would survive this debacle; it would merely force him to grow a tougher shell.
Eschewing the elegant dining room, Phillip brought the newspaper into his study, where Millie had placed his breakfast on a tray
. As he sat in his favorite leather chair, he thought about Shae Rowan, another factor in his lack of sleep last night. He remembered everything about her, from the light sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose to the way her wavy, red-gold hair had rippled in the sea breeze. He could almost feel her pulse against his fingertips that moment when he’d taken her hand, could almost see her gaze drop after he had kissed her.
The kiss itself, however, may have cost him the most sleep
. Had he been a fool to touch her, or had he been a fool to let her go? No matter how he tried to convince himself he didn’t need her, the thought that she might accept Ethan Lowell’s repugnant offer gnawed his soul. How could he allow her to submit to such a fate?
As he unfolded his newspaper, all thoughts of Shae Rowan were quickly swept aside
. For from it dropped a scrawled note, in large, familiar print:
Dear Nigger-love
r
Time’s up
. You’ve been warned.
Phillip sipped his coffee, but his mouth felt deadly dry
. Despite his brave words to Frindly, he couldn’t help worrying about someone who would continue spewing such hate-filled threats. Someone who could get so close to his office . . . and now his home and family.
*
After a last word of thanks to Eva and her sons, Shae left the shanty. A stiff breeze brought with it the welcome scent of saltwater, and nearby, a willow’s leaves fanned out like pale, green streamers. As dried leaves and a few hand fliers danced along the narrow alley, Shae walked in sight of back doors between Austin Street and Buena Vista.
Her right foot felt much better this morning
. As each step flexed it, the wound throbbed weakly, but she continued crunching over crushed shell until the pain faded nearly beyond notice.
Leaving behind the former slave quarters and the small homes built as rentals, she turned toward Lee Boulevard, where she would use the coin found in her pocket to buy a streetcar ride in the direction of the home of Lucius Oliver
. Here, outside the alley, no cheap apartments or Negro servants’ homes were visible. Instead, white-painted wooden columns and late summer flowers ornamented many house fronts.
This early in the morning, Shae saw men in business suits scuttling toward the corner where the streetcar would soon stop
. A few, like her father, drove buggies or rode on horseback toward their places of employment. One horse, a fat gray saddle mare, danced sideways as the breeze plucked Shae’s hat from her head. Its rider, a man with a mustache as luxuriant as the finest sable brushes, glared at her as he fought for control. Shae nodded pleasantly and managed to snatch her hat before it made a permanent escape.
In front of a plantation-style mansion, a stoop-shouldered black man trimmed the dead fronds off a short palm tree while a dark-skinned child raked beneath a hedge of oleanders
. The breeze made the boy’s task more difficult, for it sporadically shook more leaves from the shrubs.
Shae paused as the sight triggered memory
. Some disease had blighted the thick foliage, turning the usually dark green leaves a spotted yellow. Those that had fallen had browned and dried. Some had blown through the fence into the street. Dismounting carefully, she leaned over and swept up several in one hand. They were long, pointed, and gently rounded at the edges.
Removing the carpetbag slung over her shoulder, Shae quickly flipped it open
. She reached past the wrapped lump of the cameo, and dug out the dried leaves that remained. Although those from inside the satchel were crumbling with age, they were obviously oleander leaves.
Just like the oleanders from her own backyard
.
Shae allowed the wind to lift her burden and blow the leaves, both old and new, into the street
. Glancing up, she saw the gardener and the boy both staring at her.
Not wanting to attract anymore attention, she turned her footsteps toward the corner and caught the next streetcar
. As a horse drew it along its track, she noticed oleanders everywhere. Most were healthier than the one she had just seen. The towering shrubs served as both windbreaks and ornamentals, for in the spring and early summer, their showy blossoms filled the air with a sweet scent. Unlike many other plants, they seemed to thrive on harsh wind and salt air.
Half the homes in Port Providence had oleanders nearby
. What made her think that those leaves had come from her backyard? What made her remember that day, so many years ago, when Father had planted all those bushes?