The Black Knight's Tune Read online

  “My mother.” Willow stepped past me into the room. She smiled proudly as she turned to look at me. Her smile slipped. “Is something wrong?”

  “Your mother…” My voice fractured, and I regarded the woman in the painting with intrigue, willing her to speak and answer all the questions ruminating in my mind.

  Could Willow’s mother be the woman? Had meeting Willow stirred up memories I’d learned to suppress? The resemblance between the pair was remarkable. Eerie, in fact.

  “Olivia was her name.” Willow’s tone was soft, and her eyes focused on the painting.

  “Olivia…” I rolled the name over my tongue. The likelihood that I could be the child Willow wrote about mounted—sending a shudder through me.

  It was her! It had to be.

  “You’re frightening me,” Willow said.

  “I know her.”

  “That’s impossible,” she sputtered.

  “I assure you it’s not.”

  “What Willow’s trying to say is her mother’s dead. But you knew this already?” Whitney’s brow narrowed.

  I turned to look at them. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to confuse you.” Nausea tugged at my stomach, and the room turned rapidly like the spinning top I’d played with as a child. I gripped the edge of the desk to steady myself.

  Whitney took me by the elbow and guided me to a chair. “Sit,” she ordered, and to Willow, “you too. You look ready to faint.”

  Willow shuffled to a chair next to me and took a seat.

  “That’s the woman,” I said, “the one in my visions. Her eyes are…your eyes.” I swung my head back to the portrait, then back to Willow. “As sure as I’m here now, she’s indeed the woman. When I received your letter, I’d dared hope, but the impossibility of it all gave me cause to doubt.”

  “Stop.” Willow held up a hand. “You’re talking in riddles. What are you saying?”

  I paused to gather the right words to say. Not hours ago I’d clung to a hope which had seemed as impossible as waking to find that a black president had succeeded President Fillmore instead of Franklin Pierce, who Papa was sure would be the fourteenth president of the United States.

  My voice thick with emotion, I spoke. “I believe…I believe I’m Mag.”

  Willow’s face drained of color, and her eyes lost focus.

  “Willow!” Whitney snapped her fingers in front of her face before going to shut the study door.

  Willow shook her head and rubbed her hands over her face and pulled them down, fixing her piercing green eyes on me—her mother’s eyes. Certainty straightened my shoulders, Olivia was the woman.

  “What makes you think you’re the Mag I mentioned in the letter?” Her voice trembled.

  “I remember the ship. I remember landing in New York. And I remember the name Mag. I wasn’t sure if it was my name or someone from my past. But like a whisper in the wind, it’s always been there in my head.”

  Tears flooded her eyes and rushed down her cheeks.

  “Since seeing you in New York the dreams and visions have plagued me yet again. The desire to know where I’ve come from was rekindled. I need to know more. What do you know of this Mag you wrote about?”

  She started slowly. “My mother found the child hiding on the plantation. She’d escaped the slave traders. They’d hidden in the swamps until Mother thought it was safe. Then they doubled back, and Ben disguised the child as a boy and put her on a ship to New York. You see, we don’t even know if Mag reached New York.”

  “Why are you so insistent on finding this child?” I asked.

  “Because…because I believe her to be the child of someone very dear to me.”

  I sat up straighter. “W-who is this person?” I swallowed the thickening in my throat.

  “His name’s Jimmy. He’s a blacksmith here at Livingston.”

  “James,” Whitney corrected. “His given name’s James. His wife’s name was Nellie.”

  “Do you recognize the names?” Willow asked.

  I heaved a sigh. “No, I’d hoped…I…”

  “We all did.” Her shoulders slumped.

  “Perhaps I can meet your blacksmith.”

  “No!” she gasped. Her eyes flew to me. My jaw dropped at her outburst. She hurried to explain. “When I told Jimmy about the name in the ledger and Ben revealed the details of the child, Jimmy was distraught. Told me never to speak of her again.”

  “Yet you continue to search for her?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I can’t give up. If you could only see the ache in his eyes. Losing her broke him.”

  “You care for the blacksmith.”

  “Like a father,” she said, barely above a whisper. Her shoulders slumped as if bearing an excessive burden. She swallowed back tears and looked at me, her eyes hollowed and troubled.

  “He must be quite a man, to bring on such feelings,” I said.

  “He’s extraordinary. Smart. Intelligent. Good at whatever he puts his hands to. He’s been there for me through many dark times in my life. Guided me…and, I like to believe…loved me,” she said softly.

  It was apparent she held great affection for the blacksmith and felt the need to protect him, which endeared her to me even more. “Will you introduce me to this man?”

  Her eyelids fluttered with nervousness. “If you promise not to mention my letter. We must also be certain you’re Mag. I can’t risk breaking his heart again.”

  “Understood.”

  “Very well, then. Let us show you to your quarters.” Willow strode toward the door.

  “Mary Grace had my trunk taken to the cabin,” I said.

  Willow swung back. Worry permeated her face. “I hope you don’t—”

  I lifted a hand to stop her. “I do not take offense to staying in the quarters. The cabin’s lovely. Besides, it’ll be refreshing to be around others like me.”

  “See, I told you she’d understand.” Whitney tossed an auburn ringlet over her shoulder with a satisfied look.

  Willow’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m sure they will be happy to teach you whatever you like. I do wish things were different. However, I appreciate your understanding.”

  “Of course.” I followed her from the room.

  “This Ben you mentioned, who’s he?” I asked as we made our way back down the corridor.

  Willow stopped in her tracks and turned. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I guess in all the excitement I forgot to introduce you. Come, I’ll do that now.”

  Kipling and the other man were engaged in a conversation about politics. They rose when we entered. I studied the attractive blond man, who appeared to be in his forties. His eyes fell on Willow, and a rush of tenderness stole across his face. He regarded her the way Papa had me, with the desire to protect and an unrestricted appreciation for her as a woman, not marred by the views men often ascribed to women.

  She walked over to him and patted his arm, smiling up at him with the same affection he bestowed on her. “Uncle, I’d like you to meet my friend Ruby. Ruby, this is Ben Hendricks.”

  He strode forward with an outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

  His hand was warm and firm, his eyes kind and inviting, and I instantly liked the man. “The honor is mine, sir,” I said, searching his face for a glimpse of a memory, but I came up blank.

  “Do you recognize him?” Willow said.

  Ben twisted to look at her, his brows knitted in confusion.

  Hopelessness enveloped me. “No.”

  “She met him moments ago; of course she recognizes him.” Kipling glanced from me to Whitney and then Willow, his confusion mirroring Mr. Hendricks’s.

  Willow looked to me. “Is it all right with you if I tell them what you told us?”

  I nodded. Willow related to the men what we’d discussed in the study.

  “What!” Kipling’s mouth unhinged. “But you never said anything—”

  “Because until now it seemed a far-fetched hope. Even af
ter receiving the letter, I’d believed it was hopeless until I saw the painting. Then I hoped by seeing Mr. Hendricks he’d stir a memory, but I’m afraid I don’t remember you,” I said to Mr. Hendricks. Genuine sadness reflected in his eyes.

  For weeks I’d clutched a thread of hope that maybe I’d finally have the answers I sought. That coming to Livingston would ease the ache of the unknown, but the answers had died with Olivia Hendricks and in my failure to recognize Willow’s uncle. But what of the other man Willow had mentioned? Could I be his daughter? A small flame kindled in me.

  “The blacksmith—when can I meet him?” My voice squeaked.

  Mr. Hendricks drew in a sharp breath, and his eyes met Willow’s.

  “Soon, I promise,” she said. “We need to approach this with the uttermost respect and care. I know it’s wrong of me to ask, but I beg you for a little more time. We need to be certain.”

  “I’ll respect your wishes. I do not want to cause him any unnecessary pain.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, I STEPPED out onto the stoop of the cabin. The grayness of yesterday had faded away, and the sun sat bold and proud in the vast blue sky. I took in the grand expanse of Livingston Plantation before my eyes settled on the pesky rooster perched on a fence post a shoe’s throw away. He cocked his head and studied me with one beady eye.

  I set my jaw and stared into that beady eye. “So, you’re the one making all the racket.”

  He adjusted himself on the post and turned his body from me as if I was the one disrupting his morning.

  “Good morning.” Willow, all smiles, strode across the yard toward me with Whitney’s little sister, Kimie, in tow.

  The girl’s advancement resembled more of a skip than a walk, billowing her green-printed calico dress. The morning sun gleamed off her blond hair arranged in a simple braid over her shoulder.

  “Did you sleep well?” Kimie asked, her cheeks rosy from the early morning temperatures.

  “Yes, until my little friend here decided it was time I rolled out of bed.” I nodded at the rooster.

  Willow laughed.

  “Oh, that’s Burt. He’s ornery, but he’s the best rooster we have on the plantation,” Kimie said, hurrying to catch her breath before continuing. “Miss Willow says you help nurse the sick folks in the Five Points. And that I can show you around the quarters if you want.”

  I smiled at her. “I’d like that.”

  Her young shoulders arched back, and I noticed the budding of tiny breasts through the bodice of her dress.

  “But first, I thought we’d show you around the grounds.” Willow draped an arm around her shoulders. “Whitney wanted to join us, but she previously promised Mrs. Sterling she’d help with the delivery of her grandbaby when the time came. Mr. Sterling came calling this morning.”

  We strolled the grounds of Livingston, and soon I became lost in its beauty and tranquility. Gardeners had trimmed every shrub and tree with precise care. Dormant rose bushes showcased the front walkway to the main house. We turned down a pathway that led around a pond on one side of the house, past a small family graveyard enclosed in a white wooden fence. My feet paused as a headstone caught my attention; it sat farther back in the family plot and flowers had recently been laid, yet the earth around it appeared undisturbed. The gravestone read: Katherine Shaw—1813–1835—Forever Loved.

  “Kimie, run along, we’ll meet you in the quarters,” Willow said.

  After she ran off, Willow rested her hands on the fence, her eyes drawn to the grave. She heaved a sigh and gave me a sideways glance. “I…I…” She turned and I noticed how she chewed on the corner of her mouth.

  “Willow, what is it?” I touched her hand.

  Her eyes dropped to our fingers, lightly intertwined. She looked at me, her eyes hollow. “That grave belongs to my mother.”

  I frowned. “But it says Katherine.”

  “Come, let’s sit.” She guided me to a stone bench under a budding magnolia tree. Once seated, she said, “I’ve been told that after my father found her body, he buried her here without a headstone. In later years, troubled by her unmarked grave, he came up with the idea to use her middle name.” She went on to explain about her mother’s murder and the reason her father believed it necessary to cover up her death.

  I sat in awe. Willow fumbled with her hands resting in her lap. A tear trailed over her cheek and disappeared. Her pain and longing were so familiar to mine. We both yearned for someone we didn’t know.

  “You go to great care to honor her still.”

  “The flowers?” She shifted to look at the grave. “No, that’s Ben’s doing.”

  “Oh,” I said. “You’re blessed to have an uncle that cares as much as he seems to.”

  “He’s not truly my uncle,” she said, her eyes pulling away from the grave. She looked at me as if she wanted to say something.

  “He’s not? But I thought you’d said—”

  She released a long breath and told me the tragic love story of her parents. When she finished, her shoulders sagged as if she’d released a hefty burden, while my head whirled with bewilderment and admiration for the man whose character outstood anything I’d ever heard: his selflessness and the profound love he’d carried for Olivia and Willow, giving them up so that they had a chance at a better life. The beauty in love such as his was something I strove to earn in my life.

  My heart ached for my friend, who was drowning in the secrets she’d no choice but to keep. And for the first time, I noticed the tiredness in her eyes and how the girl I’d first met now lacked the beautiful smile of her former self. Weariness clung to her shoulders as though a yoke hung around her neck. I sent a prayer up to heaven that God would grant her the happiness she so richly deserved.

  Soon, we made our way back to the main house. On the front gallery, we found Mary Grace’s mama—Henrietta—sweeping leaves. Her deep voice rumbled from low in her belly as she sang the song “Amazing Grace,” written by the former slave trader, John Newton. The richness of her contralto voice cloaked me in chills.

  “Are you feeling better?” Willow called as we mounted the steps.

  Caught up in spirit of song, the woman jumped and spun around. “Lard sakes, gal! No need to shout. I ain’t but a hare’s hop away.” Her tone sounded gruff, but I noticed that look—the one Mr. Hendricks held for Willow. One of eternal love.

  Her keen eyes roved over me. “Miss Willow speaks of your good deeds in de North. Takes a woman wid great courage to take on a country bound on wiping our noses in de dirt.”

  Astounded at her forwardness, I recalled the slaves on our journey and how they’d differed from her, so docile and resigned to the life placed on them.

  “Some days I lack the courage I need.” I spoke honestly, matching her directness. “I desire to see slavery end and will join others in the fight to secure equality for all mankind, no matter their situation.”

  “I see why Miss Willow’s drawn to ya.” Her laughter rocked the thickness of her waist. “She got dat burnin’ in her eyes, too.”

  An affectionate smile etched Willow’s face. “I’m going to show Ruby around the rest of the property, and then I’ll bring her by the kitchen house for breakfast.”

  “I’ll be heading dat way right away. I’ll whip you up somepin’, Miss Ruby, dat’ll be sho’ to stick to dose skinny bones of yours. How do you survive dose New York winters widout any meat on your bones?”

  I belted out a laugh that ended in an unbecoming snort. Henrietta’s lips twitched with a grin she kept at bay, but her eyes smiled. Deep creases etched her forehead and the corners of her eyes and jowls from sorrows I couldn’t begin to understand, yet the warmth in her dark eyes captivated me. My thoughts turned to my birth mother, and I envisioned her being something like this woman.

  “I survive with many layers,” I said.

  Henrietta sobered, and her mirth vanished. “Me too,” she said and turned to walk inside the house, whispering over her shoulder a mumbled goodbye.

 
Had I said something wrong? My chest tightened as the door closed behind her. I looked to Willow, who stood gaping after her, confusion and concern wrinkling her brow. She turned to me, her lips parted, and a soft peep escaped her before she said, “I’m sure Kimie’s wondering where we are.”

  We circled the gallery to the backyard, and crossed the work yard to the quarters. Burdened by what I’d done to offend Henrietta and the desire to make it right, I said, “Clearly I said something to upset her.”

  “I don’t know what, but sometimes it’s like little things will stir feelings or memories in her, and she goes to a dark place in her mind. Please don’t worry; it’ll pass,” she said, as if she’d experienced the situation before.

  I nodded, but it didn’t alleviate the anguish I felt over offending her. Willow forced a tight smile as she tried to shuffle her own concern.

  “Miss Willow, Miss Ruby.” Kimie raced toward us. “Are you ready?” Without waiting for an answer, she clasped my hand in hers and pulled me forward.

  Her excited chatter as she introduced me to people lifted my spirit and drew my thoughts away from what had transpired minutes ago. We walked up and down the wide pathways between the rows of cabins. At the back of each cabin, a small section was fenced off and housed a hog or two and chickens. Planted alongside the buildings were secluded gardens with new sprouts poking up out of the earth. Women boiled clothing in large iron pots over open fires. Children darted in and out as they worked. A grandmother with an unlit pipe clutched between her teeth squatted on the stoop of a cabin, holding a wailing child I recognized to be Mary Grace’s daughter Evie.

  “Morning, Sara.” Willow waved.

  The woman squinted in our direction, and as we drew closer, I saw cataracts glazed the woman’s eyes. “It’s a blessed day.”

  “Sara is Miss Willow’s handmaiden’s mama.” Kimie hurried to spit out the mouthful of words, her young shoulders drawing back with pride. “Her and Esther minds all the small children. Most of the children call her Grannie because she spoils them with stories and loves on them.”

  “You be sho’ to come back dis way today. I’ve fixed dat doll you brought by,” Sara said.