The Black Knight's Tune Read online

  Though I’d started out as his assistant, within the year he’d promoted me to a journalist. The male staff had bickered over my advancement, but Kipling had shut it down before it festered into needless awkwardness.

  Often, when the nights became long, he’d signal a hansom cab to take me home. Each time he’d accompany me back, walk me to the door, and offer a friendly stroke of my shoulder or a kiss on my cheek, thanking me for my commitment to the paper. Oh, how desperately I wanted to tell him my dedication was not only to the newspaper but to him.

  “Love is a tricky thing.” I balled my fist in the folds of my skirt.

  His playful laughter scalded my wounded soul. “What do you know of love?”

  “Not much.” I shrugged, refusing to meet his gaze and utterly unprepared for what he asked next.

  “Have you ever been in love?” His words came out softer…thoughtful.

  I elevated trusting eyes to his questioning ones. My tongue felt awkward and thick. “I–I have.”

  “And?”

  “He didn’t return my feelings.”

  “Well, it can’t be Saul. I see how he looks at you,” he said in a voice for my ears only. “Whoever the man is, he’s a damn fool. Any man would be fortunate to win the heart of an exquisite woman like you.” He shook his head with disdain.

  I searched his face, yearning to find a glimmer of the emotions surging behind my breast, desperate to discover what I knew I’d never find. Instead, I recognized the respect and admiration he held for me. In that I suppose I should be happy, yet my chest tightened with displeasure and rejection.

  “What?” His eyes widened in confusion.

  “Nothing.”

  “But that sadness in your eyes. This man has obviously hurt you.”

  How could he not know I cared for him? Rage stewed in me at the daft man that sat before me with his mouth agape and his warm brown eyes roving over my face. His love for the chestnut Southern belle—with a heart so full of love for another man—hadn’t dampened. I believed he’d put his feelings for Willow aside for the time being. For how long, I wasn’t sure.

  I’d come to believe Kipling would remain unwed forever. Maybe it was best that way. To see him with another woman…well, it was devastating to envision. My stomach grew heavy at the horrible selfishness of such a thought. Don’t I want him to find happiness? Yes, of course I did.

  “Let’s not speak of personal matters.” I pulled in my chair and lifted the quill from the inkwell. “If you’ll kindly remove yourself from my desk, I’ve work to do.”

  “We will have this chat again and you’ll tell me of the man who’s too simple to see what he has passed up.” He stood.

  You! I screamed silently.

  Infuriatingly…oblivious. My toes wiggled in my shoes, and I bit down hard on my tongue and muted the list of hurtful words I wanted to throw at him.

  “We’re meeting Frederick Douglass at noon to go over the injustice served by the city on the teacher.”

  Kipling casually walked to the front door, placed his silk top hat on his head, and slipped into his black frock coat. Then with a smile and a tip of his hat, he was gone.

  Through the blur of my damp eyes, I stared at the delicate oversized snowflakes cascading like feathers from the sky and hitting the windowpane, only to melt and vanish into nothing, mimicking the hopeless love in my heart with the understanding that Kipling and I’d never be more than an absurd delusion.

  I dropped my head, and the words on the parchment in front of me clouded in the well of tears threatening to wash the ink from the pages. If only I’d guarded my heart. I had no one to blame but myself, after all; I’d landed myself in this predicament to start with.

  A woman of color married to a white man—why, it was inconceivable. I laughed out loud at my idiocy, then cringed as the unfeminine echo of my booming laugh lifted heads, stirring the loathing I’d held for a sound I couldn’t control.

  THAT NIGHT IN THE WARMTH in front of the fireplace Mother and I sat in rockers, busying ourselves with rolling gray and brown wool into balls. Papa relaxed in a Louis-Philippe mahogany armchair, cushioned with green velvet, gifted to him by his sister. It was a grandiose piece he’d never have wasted money on, yet it had become his chair. He sat engrossed in the day’s edition of the newspaper I’d brought him.

  “Splendid paper,” Papa said. “Young Kipling knows how to fill the pages with worthy articles that pique the interest of all people, unlike the twaddle the mercantile and political papers write aimed exclusively for the elite and social climbers.”

  “The same thing you say every night.” Mother’s gray eyes smiled at me over the top of her wire spectacles. Her gaze revealed the affection she held for my father.

  “Kipling’s delighted with your feedback on the paper,” I said over my shoulder. “He won’t let me leave without taking a copy for you.”

  The paper rustled as he turned another page. “And to think my girl has a hand in the stories he publishes,” he said, his tone tinged with pride.

  His love had been a constant in my life, and he remained my biggest advocator. Attending an all-black school had not given me a sense of kinship and had heightened my awareness that I was different. Though the children and I bore the same dark skin, my parents were white, and that made me stand out. And I became an easy quarry for the heartless jeering of my peers. The cruelest of my childhood ridiculers had been a boy. He’d planted the worry in my head that if my white parents fell on hard times, they’d sell me to the slave states for a tempting price; a fear that secured precedence in a tender child’s mind. Their taunting had sent me running into my papa’s arms.

  “There, there. Don’t cry, my little jewel. Tell me, what’s your trouble,” he’d said, his warm breath kissing the top of my head.

  “Don’t sell me.”

  “What rubbish do you speak?” He’d pulled me back and held me by the arms, his dark eyes confused and searching for answers.

  I’d relayed to him what the boy had said. “I don’t want to be different. I want to be like the other kids,” I’d wailed with childlike understanding.

  “You may always be different in the world’s eyes, but it’s what you believe inside that’ll be your greatest friend or your enemy. Don’t let others make you feel small and worth less than them because of the shade of your skin. Though you weren’t made by us, the Almighty saw fit to give you to us, and each day I thank Him for allowing you to walk into our lives.”

  “Even if I’m not a boy?”

  He’d gently swiped the tip of his finger across my nose. “Especially because you’re not a boy.”

  I smiled at the memory. Many times throughout my life I’d come to him with my troubles, but I’d left the matters of the heart for my mother. However, I was sure she’d whispered my feelings for Kipling to him.

  My thoughts turned to the previous night’s dream, and an intense yearning lodged in my chest. My parents were creeping up on seventy, and life with them was beyond anything I could ever have imagined. They’d ensured that I never went without and had showered me with unconditional love. Despite the happiness of being their daughter, I could never calm the disquiet that had troubled me all my life—the longing for my real family.

  “Mother…”

  “What is it?”

  “I had another dream last night,” I said.

  Behind me, Papa drew in a jagged breath. Guilt rushed through me. I didn’t want to cause them pain. Why couldn’t I be satisfied in all they had given me? They had risked so much. I knew the answer. It had always been clear—a part of me was missing, and no matter how I tried, I couldn’t force the yearning from my heart.

  “I heard you crying,” she said, studying me keenly.

  “They come almost nightly and change form slightly. Some nights it’s the ship’s hold, and other times there’s the sound of howling dogs. I’m in a wooded area that resembles a swamp, and I’m being chased. But there’s a woman holding my hand and urging me to r
un. The woman with the eyes I can’t seem to forget. Then there’s the man with skin like mine. He’s gentle and kind, but I can never get a clear image of his face. He sings the same tune…” I began to hum the soothing melody running through my head. The tune with the lyrics lost to me.

  “Maybe it’s the longing to know where you come from that manifests in your dreams.”

  “If only I bore a brand or something, then maybe I could trace myself back to the man who owned me.”

  The word master would never part my lips. I was no man’s property. I was Ruby Stewart, a free black woman. As a child, I’d taken my freedom, and no one would take that from me.

  “The fact that you weren’t branded has helped keep you safe this long.” Mother’s eyes implored me to let the past rest.

  “I know.” Sadness enveloped me.

  “Can’t you be happy for what you have here?” Her broad shoulders sagged, and she appeared weary and more fragile than usual.

  “I am happy.” My voice rose. “But each day I wake a part of me is missing. It’s like a yearning that doesn’t go away. A summoning.” My hands paused rolling the wool, and I regarded her earnestly.

  “A summoning of your heart,” Papa said, rising. His shadow encompassed us. “You torment yourself, and that’s the reason for the dreams.” He tenderly squeezed my shoulder. “If I could give you the answers you seek, I would.”

  I covered his hand with mine. “I know, Papa.” Tears sprang into my eyes.

  “I fear you’ve become consumed with finding this man who may only be part of your imagination. And your heart has made you believe it’s something more,” Mother said.

  Later that night in bed, I considered my parents’ thoughts and questioned my reasoning and the push behind the visions and dreams that had come and gone over the course of my life. For a period I’d put them behind me, until Willow’s alluring green eyes met mine. Eyes I’d seen before…I was sure of it.

  THREE DAYS LATER I STEPPED out of the tenement in the Five Points after paying my respects to Mary and her family. Early that morning, she’d sent her eldest son to inform me of her daughter’s passing during the night.

  Grieving the loss of life, I wandered aimlessly down the alley, my mind preoccupied with how much Mary had suffered in her life: two stillborn births, her husband’s death, and now her daughter. How much could a person handle?

  Death in the Five Points was a daily occurrence; not only the murders but the mortality rate of children and infants was extremely high. Charles Dickens himself had written about the Points after his visit in ’42.

  Kipling strove to shine a light on the working class and the suffering in the Points through his newspaper as a way of giving the people a voice, unlike the dailies that were directed solely at the wealthy.

  “Ah, look what we have here.” A lewd voice jerked me from my pondering and sent my heart thrashing into my throat.

  “Got ourselves a darkie,” another man said.

  They stepped out of the shadows ahead: one rangy and sky-high, the other thickset and mid-height.

  “We’ll fetch a hefty price for a well-kept darkie such as yourself.” One dared to tip his hat, and his lips parted to reveal stained amber teeth.

  I scanned my surroundings, frantically seeking an escape route while I glided my hand down the side of my skirt to the concealed pocket and removed my blade. “Stay away from me,” I said with more grit than I felt inside.

  “Or what?” They closed in.

  “Or I’ll drop you where you stand.” I took a step forward, revealing my blade. The metal gleamed and made whizzing noises as I slashed it repetitively in midair, warning them to stand back.

  Disbelief shadowed their faces, and they exchanged questioning looks. My heart leaped with anticipation. But they were quick to recover their composure.

  The stocky one’s laughter vibrated throughout the alley. “You think you can take the two of us?” He gestured between himself and his mate.

  “Maybe not both, but one of you will take your last breath today.” Fear bloomed in my chest and I sliced the knife maniacally at them.

  They advanced. I dashed for the narrow gap between a dance hall and a boarding house. The hem of my dress caught on a plank and pulled me back so hard my neck burned from the snap. Frantically, I yanked the fabric from the board as the men darkened the entrance. Malicious grins spread across their faces.

  “There’s nowhere to run. You’ll be a master’s whore before the end of the week.” The shorter of the men crept forward.

  I turned and fled, weaving around buildings and dashing down gaps, making my way to Cross Street. My lungs burned and my legs wobbled, feeling like they’d give out at any minute, as I swerved in the direction that would lead me out of the Points.

  I cast a glance over my shoulder and stumbled over something in my path and went down hard. My tumble knocked the wind from me, and for a moment I sat stunned before becoming aware of a lumpy mass beneath me. I looked down and saw the body of a man lying stiff and cold on the frozen ground with a bullet in his chest. The pool of crimson that had oozed from him formed a solidified puddle. The man’s death was yet another murder to add to the police’s unsolved crimes of the Points.

  My eyes darted to the men as they rounded the corner and looked up and down the street. Before their eyes fell on me and they sprinted toward me, I dug my heels into the ground, kicking at the corpse to get to my feet. Upright, I turned and ran. Taking a sharp left onto Mulberry Street, I dodged around crates, hecklers, and peddler’s carts.

  “A coin for a blind woman?” A beggar grabbed at the bottom of my dress.

  I whipped my dress from her grasp. My mind screamed, I’m sorry, but my legs threw me forward. I darted down the alley in hopes of losing my pursuers as a fiery redhead stepped out on the stoop of a tavern and launched a bucket of filthy mop water into the alley. I came to a sudden halt, gasping as the water splattered over me, stinging my nostrils and dribbling down my face. The strong taste of lye soap and the grit of dirt ran over my tongue.

  “I’m awful sorry, Miss Ruby,” the tavern maid squeaked, horror widening her bright blue eyes.

  I pulled myself from the shock of the mop water’s assault and bolted up the steps and into the tavern. My heart thundered in my skull, blurring the girl’s next words as I entered the poorly lit establishment and the stench of unwashed bodies, vomit, and alcohol curdled my stomach. I heard the footsteps of my pursuers as they raced into the alley and plastered myself against the wall inside the doorway. Closing my eyes, I tried to slow my breathing.

  “You see a colored woman pass through here?” one of them asked the girl on the stoop.

  “Sure did,” she said.

  My eyes flew open and fear tightened my chest. No!

  “She went that way.”

  The sound of their heavy footfalls continued down the alley. I breathed a sigh of relief as they faded.

  “What’s she doing in here?” a blond bearded man of fifty years or so whispered to his companion.

  Ignoring them, I strode into the back of the tavern to look for the owner.

  “What’s all the fuss?” Husky, dark-haired Joseph heaved a keg of beer onto his shoulder and turned. His thick black brows peaked in surprise. “Ruby, what are you doing here?”

  “Slave traders tried to snatch me in the alley. I was on my way back from paying my respects to Mary Kelly.” I held my side to ease the stitch and catch my breath.

  “I heard she lost her girl.” He pushed by me and disappeared through the door into the main room.

  “Joseph.” I chased after him. I’d interviewed the tavern owner for a story not long ago after his imports of whiskey were banned. And I’d helped in the delivery of two of his children.

  He sat the keg down on the floor behind the bar. I moved in close to his side while eyeing the side door and the front, waiting for the men to stumble in.

  He straightened, and his eyes dropped to my hand. “You best put that away.
”

  I lowered my eyes and saw the blade I still clutched tightly. I felt for the secret pocket of my gingham dress and slipped it inside.

  “How many times have I told you not to come to the Points alone?” he scolded in a brotherly manner.

  “I consider myself street smart for the most part—”

  “It has nothing to do with being street smart. There’s always someone looking to make an extra coin. A black woman walking alone is an easy target here.”

  “I’ve learned to be aware of my surroundings no matter what neighborhood I visit.”

  “Do I have to sit here all day or are you going to waste my time talking to this darkie?” The same bearded man from earlier scraped back his chair and approached the counter.

  Joseph filled a mug with ale.

  “And one for my friend.” The man kept his glassy light eyes pinned on me.

  Joseph nodded and handed two mugs to the man. He stumbled back to his chair and slammed the mugs down, sloshing ale over the tops that darkened the wooden table.

  “I’ll get my brother to take you wherever you are headed,” Joseph said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Now you best move into the back room until he comes for you.” He tilted his head at the storage room.

  In the back, I leaned against some crates to wait. I’d evaded capture today, but when would the next person looking to make some coin try to capture me? I heaved a somber sigh. “Free” was a funny word. A word the North used to appease the people that stood against slavery.

  I’d spent a good share of my life helping runaways, and I’d listened to their stories and witnessed the horrors conducted on their bodies. I’d held mothers in my arms as they wept, grief overcoming them as they shared their memories of the children, husbands, and other family members their masters had sold off or killed. I listened as they told me of the punishments and rapes they’d endured. The men told me how they stood powerless while the master bedded their wife. Each story they’d shared, I’d never forgotten. Stories I refused to ignore unless I, too, became complacent to the suffering of my race. Across the nation, slaves cried out for a redeemer, and I wondered…had He forgotten them?