Whispers of War Read online

  “She took it upon herself to give the weaver’s boy a shiner.”

  “Maybe he deserved it?”

  She folded her arms across her chest and pursed her lips. “Because he said she looked like a boy with her shorn head?”

  I giggled and shrugged.

  A lice infestation in the quarters had required that most of the children’s hair be shorn; even some womenfolk had decided it was easier to shave their heads than administer the endless, but necessary, combing for nits and lice. “I pick cotton all day. Ain’t ’bout to pluck critters all night,” I’d overheard a woman say as she’d passed under my chamber window that morn.

  Mary Grace’s scowl deepened.

  I threw my hands in the air. “All right, maybe she was in the wrong.”

  “The child doesn’t take after her father or me. She has more spirit than I can handle.”

  “Spirit will do her good in life. Look at your mama.” I nudged my head to the parlor window, where I’d spotted Mammy standing with a hand on her hip, her other hand wagging sass at a house servant. “I wonder what the poor girl did?” I said, our heads tucked together as they’d often been when we were children.

  “You know Mama. If chores aren’t done right, we are all gonna hear about it,” she said out of the corner of her mouth.

  We shared a chuckle, and I left Mary Grace to her work and headed inside.

  TILLIE HELPED ME GET READY for the luncheon at Josephine’s townhouse in Charleston. I slipped into a chemisette before donning a blue afternoon dress. As I exited the privacy screen my cage crinoline caught, and Tillie bounded forward to grab the screen before it crashed to the floor.

  “I do declare, the designers that make these crinolines must all be men,” I said with a huff. “I’d like to see them move around in these horrible garments. I mean, can they add any more rows of flounces to the bottoms?” I eyed her plain cotton frock with envy.

  A soft giggle came from Tillie.

  I looked at her with a sheepish grin. “I suppose I shouldn’t be complaining. Do tell me, how is your husband?”

  Her face brightened with the glow of a newlywed. “Oh, he fine, Missus Willow.”

  I gestured at her middle. “And the babe? It grows strong?”

  Months prior, Tillie and Pete, radiating hope and love, had come to Bowden and me with news she was with child, and had requested permission to marry. I had been immersed in grief and secretly begrudged her happiness, and the wrongness of my jealousy vexed me. Upon my weeping confession to Bowden one evening, he had soothed me with words of tenderness: “You mustn’t be too hard on yourself.”

  Tillie’s slender fingers encircled the small bump protruding from her stomach, evoking a pang of envy, then sorrow, in me. I recalled how Bowden had affectionately stroked my belly in the privacy of our chamber.

  “Et kicks are strong.”

  I cradled my stomach with the urge to have my son nestled safely in my womb. Anxiety washed over Tillie’s face, alerting me to my actions, and I dropped my hands.

  “I sorry, Missus,” she whispered with a downcast gaze. “I know you and Masa Bowden was so happy ’bout de babe.”

  “No, don’t. It is I who is sorry.” Heavy of heart, I sat on the stool in front of my vanity. “I must ask your forgiveness.”

  She screwed up her face. “What for, Missus?”

  “Because when you and Pete came to us about the baby, I was bitter and hurting.” I leaned forward and clasped her hands. “I am happy for you, truly I am.”

  “I understand. We all see your pain. Pete and I wondered ef we should say anything, but we knowed soon my belly would grow and we bes’ be tellin’ you and de masa.”

  “You did right. Please accept my apology.”

  “Ain’t nothing to forgive,” she said. “But ef you need to hear et for yourself, I ’ccept your apology.”

  I squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

  Against Bowden’s wishes, I had remained at Livingston throughout the hottest months; the thought of enduring the solemn faces and intrusive interrogations by Charleston’s elite and attending social gatherings plagued me with anxiety. Residing at Livingston amongst the ones I loved provided the solace I needed.

  Influenza sweeping through the quarters had kept Ben and Kimie busy from morning to night. Hoping to contain the illness, house folk kept to the house. I yearned to be in Ben’s company, and the yearning grew each time I stood on the back veranda and observed him making rounds in the quarters. Sometimes, seeing me, he’d pause and wave, but he was too far away for me to catch a smile or reassuring word.

  “Any update on Pete’s condition?”

  “Masa Ben said de fever broke, and he hopes he be on de mend by week’s end.” Longing for her man shone in her face.

  “I’m happy to hear that. He has responsibilities waiting on him.” I dropped my eyes to her stomach and smiled.

  Tillie returned a bright smile. “Dat he does, Missus.”

  I lifted the straw bonnet, embellished with extravagant silk flowers and ribbon trim, from the vanity. At Bowden’s insistence, I had made the impulsive purchase during our wedding journey to Texas to visit his brother, Stone. After placing the hat on my head, Tillie inserted pins to ensure it remained in place.

  “Missus.”

  “Yes.” I beheld her in the looking glass.

  “I believe de Lard will bless you and de masa wid another babe. I knowed et won’t replace de li’l masa, but He fill de void in your heart. You will see.”

  Tears welled in my eyes. “I hope you are right.”

  I yearned for Bowden’s return and the comfort his presence brought. His strength and tenderness had become a great assurance in our few years of marriage. And for that, I gave thanks.

  I again heard Mammy’s words in my head: You can either luk at de world lak et owe you somepin’, or you can be grateful for what you got and count de extra blessings de Lard seed fit to bestow on you. Reckon dis crazy life feels better dat way.

  Her wisdom continued to inspire me to see the world through her eyes. Born into a life of privilege, I knew my hardships paled in comparison to the daily suffering of others. The folks in bondage at Livingston kept me reevaluating the world through a different eyeglass. Their sufferance, and the denial of their liberty, never ceased to weigh on me.

  “I have a request of you.” I retrieved a parasol and a light covering to ward off any breeze. “While I’m gone, would you help Mary Grace empty the nursery and put the things in storage?”

  “Ef you sho’, Missus.” Uncertainty pleated her brow.

  “I believe it will be for the better.” I touched her arm on my way out.

  AS I STEPPED OUT ONTO the veranda, I noticed a rider coming up the lane. Shielding my eyes, I recognized the auburn mane bouncing beneath a wide-brimmed bonnet. I descended the stairs and walked to Parker, who waited with my driver by an open carriage.

  “Afternoon, Missus.” He had grown into a strapping man with muscles built during his time at sea. Our ships moored in Charleston harbor, and he’d come home on leave from Captain Gillies to see his pa, Owen, the plantation’s head cooper.

  “Good afternoon to you.” I took his outstretched hand and stepped into the carriage. Seating myself, I arranged the fabric of my dress before opening the silk parasol.

  “I was wondering, ma’am, ef you might have a word wid Kimie.” Over the years, Kimie’s childhood affections for Parker had never wavered, and he’d become taken with her.

  “About what?”

  He rested his weight on his cane. “Well, she ain’t bin sleeping. She determined not to lose another person. Masa Ben has tried to git her to rest, but she stubborn as any ’oman I ever saw.”

  I offered a reassuring nod and a small smile. The innocence of young love warmed my heart. “I will speak to her.”

  He grinned and smacked his leg with enthusiasm. “Thank you, Missus. I knowed I could count on you.”

  I arched a brow. “I said I will speak to her
, but I can’t make any promises that she will heed my words.”

  “Ef anyone can talk sense into her, et be you.” He stepped back as Whitney reined her horse to a stop beside the carriage. “Good day, Missus Tucker.”

  “Parker,” she said, her voice clipped. “I wasn’t aware you were back. But, then again, I haven’t seen much of my sister lately. Where is the girl?”

  “Down at de hospital in de quarters.” His eyes flitted back and forth, and pearls of sweat beaded his brow. Whitney had that effect on people, and if she knew her younger sister’s feelings for Parker had become something more, I wasn’t sure which one of them she’d go after first.

  He swallowed hard and summoned the courage to make his plea once more while avoiding Whitney’s intrusive stare. I secretly praised him. “’Member what I ask, Missus.”

  “I will,” I said.

  He turned on his heel and hobbled off.

  “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” Whitney asked.

  “Perhaps.” I shrugged. “Well, don’t dally, let’s be on our way.” I offered her a taste of her own typically curt manner. When she sat unmoving on her mount, staring after Parker, I said, “Are ya coming?”

  “I didn’t ride over here to visit myself.” Sarcasm was second nature to her. Whereas civil people strive for a gracious reply, Whitney preferred not to waste a wit of consideration on people’s “tender feelings,” as she referred to them.

  She dismounted, and a stable boy raced to take her horse. Once she sat across from me, the driver slapped the reins, and our carriage lurched forward.

  “Was it just me, or did Parker seem uneasy around me?” she said.

  My laugh came out as a snort that took both of us by surprise. “You’d think you’d be used to that by now. Your brash mannerisms aren’t for everyone.”

  “I have no time for the sensitive lot.”

  “I’m simply making an observation.”

  She scoffed and rolled back her shoulders with an upward tilt of her nose. “I will never fit into elite society, nor do I care to.”

  I smirked. “Are you referring to a sailor as elite society?”

  She glared at me and shifted in her seat to peer out over the fields as we rode along.

  I decided to change the subject and avoid starting the morning off on the wrong foot. “Are you aware that Parker and Kimie fancy each other?”

  “No. Do they?” She stared straight ahead, as a look of confusion turned to hurt. “Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

  No matter how hard she tried, the tough exterior she put forth didn’t fool me; I recognized the vulnerability that hovered under the surface of Whitney Tucker.

  “Maybe because she feared your reaction. Kimie has been in love with him for years.”

  “How did I miss that?”

  “You aren’t the most observant when it comes to love. Why, I recall the torture you put Knox through to make you commit.”

  “Because I never saw myself as the marrying type.” Her nose returned to its prior position.

  “Parker shared his concern that she is working herself too hard.”

  “My sweet my little sister. She doesn’t get the do-gooder spirit from me.” She graced me with a sideways glance.

  “Don’t we know it.”

  She gave me a dirty look but resisted a reply to my gibe. “The one thing I’m very aware of when it comes to Kimie is that she is stubborn. She won’t listen to me. You should send a message to the quarters and instruct her yourself.”

  “I’ll do that upon my return.”

  Our driver drove the carriage past the slave market on our way to Josephine’s. The auctioneer’s voice echoed from the sales lot where men came to purchase Negroes, cattle, and mules. Public selling of slaves had been banned the previous year, but the demand for Negroes to work our lands and in our homes continued. Bids rose, and the excitement of the crowd turned my stomach.

  “Maybe I’m not ready for an outing.” I blotted the sweat from my brow with a handkerchief. A wave of lightheadedness hit me.

  “You do look a tad bit pale.” Whitney pulled a fan from her handbag and waved it in front of me. I welcomed the light breeze.

  She looked over my shoulder in the direction we’d come. “Sometimes it seems the world has gone mad. Men selling men. Blacks hunting down their own and returning them to their masters for a profit. Look at Preston Brooks’s attack on Senator Sumner in the Senate Chamber. The senator had to take leave from his senate duties because of his injuries. Word is he may not return for some time.”

  I recalled the incident between Senator Sumner of Massachusetts and Representative Preston Brooks of South Carolina, who had severely beaten the senator with his cane after Sumner delivered a speech attacking the institution of slavery.

  “Yet South Carolinians have deemed Brooks a hero and returned him to Congress,” I said. “It’s maddening, I tell you. Men like David Atchison, who claims that Northerners are abolitionist tyrants and Negro thieves, only add to the brewing hate between Southerners and Northerners. Then we have fanatics like John Brown. People won’t soon forget what happened at Pottawatomie Creek.” I shuddered at the stories of the brutality that Brown and his sons had unleashed on the five pro-slavery men.

  “Pastor Abel’s endless sermons defending the morality of slavery through extensive Biblical justification quells my desire to attend Sunday services,” she said. “He uses his pulpit to infuse personal views into the congregation. Corruption at its worst if you ask me.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  Our conversation ended as our carriage stopped in front of Josephine’s townhouse.

  Nerves fluttered in my stomach, as they often did when I engaged with Josephine. I lifted the bronze knocker, but the door swung open before I had a chance to knock.

  “Mrs. Armstrong and Mrs. Tucker,” Josephine’s butler greeted us. “The missus is expecting you. She’s waiting in the garden.”

  He bade us enter, and we followed him down the corridor to the back of the home and through double glass doors into the courtyard. Summer blossoms of various shades filled the gardens and climbing roses weighted latticework trellises. The intoxicating scent of jasmine wafted on the afternoon air.

  Josephine, clad in a veiled hat and an ivory gown with a small blue print, meandered the garden paths. The butler signaled us with a white-gloved hand to wait, then went to address the lady of the house. “Missus, your guests have arrived.”

  Josephine turned. “Thank you,” she said, and he took his leave. She strode toward us with outstretched arms and embraced Whitney, then me. “It is refreshing to see faces that bring me joy.”

  I questioned her choice of a veiled hat for tea, and if I knew Whitney the way I did, I figured she was wondering the same.

  “Please come and join me.” She swept a hand toward a small table draped with a freshly pressed white linen tablecloth and crowded with white platters of refreshments. In the center, next to the vase of peonies, sat a pitcher of mint julep. As we seated ourselves, two slave boys of seven or so came out and stood nearby to air us with palmetto fans.

  “I was surprised to hear you weren’t staying in town throughout the hot months.” Josephine filled a crystal glass and handed it to me.

  “You know how people can be,” I said. “Gossiping behind fans and eyeing me with pity. I wasn’t ready to deal with them.”

  “Will your husband be joining us?” Whitney asked.

  When Josephine’s parents had found out about her relationship with a Negro slave, and that she’d birthed a child, they’d arranged a marriage between her and a man much her senior.

  “No, he is back at Bentwood bedding his wench, I suspect. Two or three mulattos have been born in the quarters since we wed. Slaves’ whisperings say they are his.” She looked at me. “I suppose we women have no choice but to turn a blind eye on such things.”

  Her reference to the rumors of Bowden possibly being Sailor’s father twisted my stomach
. I took a sip of my drink, then, as much as it pained me to do so, I said, “I suppose so.”

  “If my husband’s lust is satisfied with quarter wenches, it saves me from having to submit,” she said with indifference. “I care not what my husband does as long as he stays far away from me. But I can’t imagine you feel the same.” She directed her question at me. “The love between you and Bowden is something women aspire to in a marriage.”

  “Yes, well, rumors are rumors for a reason.” The topic fatigued me. “It’s chatter that keeps bored and unhappy people entertained and focused on matters other than those in their own households.”

  She laughed but went on to fill us in on the happenings in Charleston. “Did you hear that Lucille is engaged to her cousin? I suppose he is the only one that would have her.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s the cousin with the too-large ears?” Whitney said.

  “That’s the one. Edwin Meyer,” Josephine said. “No respectable gentleman of Charleston would have her, due to her reputation.”

  What had gotten into Lucille? Her lewd behavior and frolicking with men was no secret, but it was as if her parents had no clue about her promiscuous ways—or they chose to look the other way. Josephine and she had never rekindled their friendship, and Josephine was better off for it.

  “It’s a shame how she conducts herself,” I said with a downcast gaze. “I can’t help but feel sorry for her.” She had become a laughingstock, and the subject of most conversations.

  “It’s all her doing. I don’t feel the least bit sorry for her,” Josephine said. “Besides, it’s Edwin’s money that persuaded her, after her pa’s dealings with the railroad and his funds being seized. He’s lost his wealth and almost lost the plantation. My husband said Edwin agreed to purchase the family estate and help Lucille’s father if she would accept his offer to marry. But marriage won’t stop her fornicating.” Although her expression was hidden behind the veil, there was no denying the disgust in her voice. “Guard your husbands, ladies, because she’s made her attempts on mine. Not that I care—another woman in his bed would save me from my wifely duties.”