Chasing Freedom (12 page)

Twenty

L
YDIA REDMOND'S BLOOD WAS READY TO BOIL.
ANOTHER
frigid morning, and though the fireplace was burning lively, the bedroom was freezing cold, as were most upstairs rooms in the Roseway homes. Lydia sat uncomfortably in a chair in Mrs. Cunningham's bedroom bundled in a bright head scarf, an ill-fitting wool coat and her worn black boots.

Fanny, who worked the odd days when Sarah was at Beulah's, had greeted her saying, “Missy Cunningham is not feeling well today, a touch of the cold. I see nothing to fret about, but she's gone back to bed. Wait here.” Fanny had returned with instructions to take Lydia to Mrs. Cunningham's room.

Lydia and Margaret exchanged light talk about Fortune and little Prince while they waited for Fanny to return with tea and biscuits. Margaret's smile was like her father's, warm, yet with a chip of ice. Lydia detected that now, as she had a lot of things. She chuckled inwardly, reflecting on what you can see with your head up. She yielded now to the pressure to make things right. To do that, she had to face the unrelenting demons. This she found hard, but she had to try. As she listened to Margaret's idle chatter about the weather and Fanny and the mister and the new settlers, a voice in her head said,
She knows alright
. It was the tender smiles and hugs, the offering of food at her table, the slipping of extra money and the concern over her wellness. Lydia had seen the knowledge in her eyes, the kind warmth in her face, even the startled fear that sometimes held her back.

The wind was high and strange sounds filled the room as the roof rattled. Roseway was frozen under the blustery snow, but Lydia in her determination to right the past now sat waiting for a suitable time to find the answer to a fiery question.

Lydia looked at the fine furniture, linens and paintings with the awareness that even in a place like Roseway, where many a rich soul lived high above the rest, money had sway. For a moment, her confidence retreated, for how could she be part of such a life? She twitched and shifted uneasily. The hot tea cup Fanny passed her jiggled in her hand. She was thinking that the pretence had gone on for so long and the truth had been buried so deep, it may not surface without help. After two long breaths, she looked Margaret square in the face and said sternly, “You have a good life here in Roseway. You are well respected and fit in. You wouldn't want any trouble to change all that.”

“Yes, this is true.”

A huge swell in Lydia's throat caused her to cough and she tried to choke it back, but suddenly a rush of words tumbled out her mouth. “The past has caught me, Missy Cunningham. I'm tired of pretending and trying to forget about what happened years ago. I need to get things right between you and me. You should know the truth about your true family.”

“If you mean my relationship to you, there's no need to worry. Mother told me everything. She died regretting what happened.”

“Bless the dear soul,” Lydia said. “So you know?” Lydia looked at Margaret with a pained look and the little voice said,
There, you see, you were right
.

“I've known since I was sixteen.” Margaret sat up straighter and reached in the drawer beside her bed and retrieved a thick journal. The pages were worn and yellow. “I think it's time to bring the truth from these pages to the light. This is mother's journal. There are several things she wrote in here that I think you should hear. Should I read them to you?”

“If you like, Missy.”

“Here, near the beginning, mother wrote:

The yearning I have for a child runs deep. It never ceases. I have spoken to Edward about the emptiness. I have been told that it is common to take a light Negro child for one's own. I am tempted.

“Further on, about a month later, I find that she has done just that:

Myself and Edward met with Mr. Carter today. He says he has no problem with keeping an eye out for a light-skinned baby. He said to be patient. I can't wait. This will be a special child since I cannot have one of my own. We promised to pay him handsomely for one.

“Well, well,” Lydia mumbled. “For the money … of course.”

“And this:

I received my special gift today from Mr. Carter, just as he promised, a sweet baby girl of five months, so fair, no one would question her blood lines. I have my wish. A beautiful child with big brown eyes who seems to fancy her real mother when she enters the room. She is such a joy and my heart has never been happier. She is Lydia's child. Mr. Carter says he believes the father is the overseer from the Hartley place. He prefers sneaking around with the slaves from another farm, so as not to get caught on his own. I dare not say a word.

“There's more.” Margaret flipped to the middle of the journal.

And now my sins have come home to roost. I find little peace at night for worry. This beautiful child, Margaret, has been brought into a world of shame. This great plantation spreads for miles and miles and produces much wealth. Our dream in coming to America has been fulfilled, but it brings no happiness, for I now carry a secret that threatens everything. I cannot mention this fear to Edward. He has so little time to console me.

Slavery is a terrible business. I see whippings and hangings most every day. I witness the suffering the slaves endure: the hard work, poor food and little clothing. I hear the terrible things they say about Negroes—how they are no more than an animal, incapable of learning or reason or feeling, how even a mulatto child is a Negro, no matter how fair. Slaves have no right to their children. As a mother now, that pains me deeply. The laws are cruel and hateful. Worse, my child may suffer from this hatred if her true identity should ever be discovered. Dear Lord, watch over us.

“On my sixteenth birthday, she wrote:

And now the real worry begins for my dear Margaret. Her coming out as a young woman worries me more than words can express. She is a fine educated woman, but a Negro, nonetheless. The Cunningham lad has expressed his intentions of marriage. This is my burden, to bear the news to her of her mixed blood. I pray that her children will not expose her Negro lines, for their lives will be intolerable, though we have raised our girl to be strong.

Margaret closed the journal with care and slipped it back in the drawer. She turned her back to Lydia. And Lydia, though she reached out an arm to console her, did not hold back. Like airing the quilts in spring, this was the time to get it all out into the open. And so in a pitiless, heated tone, she said, “You knew that I was your mother all this time, yet … you said nothing.”

Margaret hung her head to the side with her eyes cast downward. She stared at the floor a long time while her shame searched for an explanation for her behaviour. Finally she said, “Yes, I knew. I was selfish and vain. Money can do that. It made me feel superior, not just to Negroes, but to everyday folks. I didn't want to be an outsider or suffer the scorn like other Negroes. At first, I could not tell anyone, not even William, but my guilt continued to pick away at me.” Margaret looked at Lydia. “Losing everything, our home, my parents, it taught me a lesson about arrogance. I'm so sorry, Lydia, so, so sorry.”

“Enough child. You said your piece. I have carried this burden since you were born. It's done with now. You are grown and happy.”

“Can you ever forgive me?”

“Yes, the good Lord forgives and so do I. You are my child,” Lydia said nervously. She sat with her eyes fixed on Margaret's face. It looked grey, drained from the golden tone, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

“Oh Lydia, I'm proud to call you my mother.”

It was those words that put Lydia's anger to rest. She moved to the edge of the bed, reached out and hugged her daughter. They wept for a long time in each other's arms.

Suddenly the wind whipped against the windows and they rattled like dishes. It carried away the warmth in the bedroom and the women shivered. It was Margaret who disturbed their happiness by asking, “Will you tell me who my father is? I have wondered for a long time if Mr. Carter told mother the truth. She mentions later in the journal that she doubted his word.”

“He lied, yes he did.”

“Then who?”

Lydia halted. She saw a shadow on the wall facing the bedroom and shouted bravely, “Did you want something, Fanny?”

Caught, Fanny said, “Just finishing the dusting,” and before anyone could speak again, she scooted down the stairs.

Margaret said, “You don't have to worry about Fanny. She has a nose for news, but she knows how to hold her tongue.”

All the same, Lydia's face knotted before mumbling, “Cecil MacLeod.”

“Cecil MacLeod?” She repeated it as though it could not be true. “Cecil MacLeod, the overseer? But he named someone else, the Hartley overseer.”

Lydia nodded her head. “Yes, it was Mr. MacLeod. He kept his evil ways to himself.”

Margaret fell back on the bed. “And now he's gone.”

But Lydia was not finished with her business. “You are my child and so I marked you with the ring. Mrs. Redmond let you keep it after I told her it was a gift to her beautiful child.”

Margaret rubbed the ring gently with a new sense of pride.

Lydia felt a sudden spark of joy, but in her heart, there was no calm. “Do you remember a child called Amelia?” she asked.

“Yes, I do. I remember when Cecil brought her to us. Mother said she was to be my companion, but Father kept reminding me that I was not to get too attached to her.”

“She was my child,” Lydia said. “Your sister.”

“My sister?”

“Yes. And there's another boy besides Fortune.”

“I am numb. I don't know what to say.”

“I got to find my children before I go to Glory. Do you know of Amelia's whereabouts?”

“Father sold her to Mr. Pinkham when she was twelve. I begged father to let her stay, but he shoved me aside, saying it was all Mother's fault, raising the two of us like we were sisters.”

“I had a few words with her before she left. Did you ever see her again? Did she stay on the Pinkham Plantation? Do you know if Master Pinkham was a Loyalist?” Lydia's face filled with torment as she continued, “Do you know if she's here in Nova Scotia?”

“Oh, Lydia, I know how anxious you must be to find her, but I can't say. I never saw her again.”

Twenty-one

A
LL WAS QUIET UNTIL GRANDMOTHER INVADED SARAH'S
sleep with a loud shout. For several minutes, Sarah ignored the call and let her thoughts linger on Reece.

The
Cape Blomidon
had returned from the North Atlantic two days earlier and Reece had visited her at Mrs. Cunningham's. She could see that he was torn when he told her he was leaving again, going back to Carolina to try and find the Redmond midwife, Rose. For how long, he hadn't been able to say. Sarah lay quietly thinking of how she had pinned her hopes on marriage instead of herself. He was a part of her life, not the whole of it, but his leaving—it had felt as though her world had collapsed without any warning.

Now her thoughts turned to the morning ahead, of assisting Colonel Black at the new school. Imagine the children of Birchtown gathering and partaking in the thing denied them for so long. The idea still felt peculiar. She wondered how the folks in Roseway would take the news. Buildings had been burned down for less. She let out a sigh and tossed about under the heavy coats.

The cabin was just beginning to warm when Sarah rose and dressed, taking a moment to twirl in her flowered dress and admire the black leather boots with brass buckles—all donations from the missionaries. How different from the tattered rags of the little slave girl in Carolina, she thought. She draped a coat around her shoulders and sat at the table. Grandmother, anxious to create a special look for the occasion, was already standing with the bone-handled brush in hand.

“It's a very special day for this family. Now, hold that head still, Sarah.” The thick hands clasped the sides of her head and pulled it back until her neck stretched like a goose.

Sarah was happy to let the old woman deal with the task, but it was her non-stop comments that irritated her so. Sarah interrupted her by saying, “You have to hurry this morning. I cannot be late.” Then with a mindful mumble, she said, “I am past braids.”

“I see you are not past giving Lydia orders.”

Sarah wrestled with mixed feelings. Having a respectable job gave her a measure of pride, yet she worried. It was Colonel Black's smile. In it dwelled something sinister that had sown the seeds of mistrust. At the same time, she was flattered to have his attention. Not that it mattered, for her heart belonged to Reece and one day he would return to claim it.

“Hush now, Child. Hush now. You are right. You are too old for braids. You are ready for a Lydia look this special day.” With that, the old woman broke into a long flow of broken lines from one of her hymns. Grandmother seemed unusually happy.

Sarah sat as still as she could. Her long mass of curly hair did not slow Grandmother's hands. She greased her palms and rubbed them through the hair to make it shine. All the while, she kept shifting Sarah's head up and down and from side to side. With her pipe stuck to her bottom lip, Lydia worked her magic. She wrapped a twisted roll once around Sarah's head and fastened it with a beautiful mother-of-pearl clip. It was a thing of beauty, a gift to Sarah from her Carolina odds and ends.

“If Fortune was here, he would burst with pride, and your mama, too. Who would have thought this day would ever come? It is a blessed day. Oh, sweet chariots.” She looked down at Sarah and laughed. “There you go, peach blossom. You are ready for the colonel.” Then catching herself, she added, “And the children. You best hurry. Your lunch is waiting on the table.”

It was a long walk in the fierce cold. All around the snow lay in a thick covering over Birchtown. The school building was a small wooden structure with a pitched roof and four glass windows. The men of Birchtown had done a fine job. Inside she found the room crowded and noisy. The worn desks were of various sizes and arranged in neat rows. The shelves along the back wall displayed an assortment of donated books from the Associates.

The date on the chalkboard said March
2
,
1785
. She stood in the midst of it all: the smell of new wood and paint, books, desks, screams, chatter and laughter. Colonel Black greeted her, then read aloud her duties from a list. He gave three piercing rings of a brass bell to signal the start of school.

From her chair beside the colonel's desk, Sarah saw among the oldest students the familiar faces of her neighbour's children: Mary Browne, Stewart Jones and Priscilla Haywood's little sister, Bella. Colonel Black checked his pocket watch. The noise coming from the youngest children, to her left, was like a gaggle of wild cackling geese. Snatching a long rod, he struck the desk and screamed, “Come to order!” Then, ever so gently, he said, “Good morning, dear students,” and they said, “Good morning, Sir.”

The lessons began with the issuing of the first of many orders. Sarah chuckled silently. He was very much the colonel issuing orders to his troops: “There will be no cursing and no fighting, no lateness, no liquor, no loose comments and no talking back. Cleanliness will be the order of the day.”

Frost nipped at Sarah's toes and fingers and she wished the new pot-bellied stove would provide more heat. She listened as Colonel Black stated, “A strong Methodist education will serve you well. There are three important qualities a former slave needs to survive in this new land: dedication, discipline and determination.” He instructed the children to repeat the three qualities twice. Then he said, “These qualities will assist you in the attainment of perfection and in pleasing the Almighty God.”

It was obvious to Sarah that the lofty words and high ideals confused the students, but their smiles blazed like golden flames nonetheless. Colonel Black turned to Sarah, put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it. His glance was flirtatious and his voice soft as he said, “Please assist me with the next task, Miss Sarah.”

She followed as he strode up and down the aisles handing out worn Bibles and hornbooks consisting of two sheets of thick, rough paper. A thin sheet of transparent horn protected each sheet. One page contained the alphabet and the other, the Lord's Prayer. The pages fastened to a wooden tablet with a handle.

Time was a long yawn. Sarah envisioned countless days and months of scripture, recitations and prayers. Already she disliked the colonel, whose long stares and touching felt uncomfortable and indecent.

Lunchtime came as a welcome blessing. She and Colonel Black discussed Fortune's upcoming trial. He assured her that he was doing what he could in meetings with the magistrates over the growing list of charges against Birchtowners, many of which he said were just plain foolish. Sarah devoured a piece of bread filled with molasses and a small leg of chicken. The food was good. After lunch, she led an embroidery lesson with the girls. Lots of cotton fabric, coloured threads, needles, scissors, tweezers and frames. The colonel struggled with meagre supplies for the boys to learn woodworking. Through the clamour, the children's eagerness was a pleasant surprise.

All went well and when the day ended, she was more than happy to accept Colonel Black's offer of a drive home. They made their way down a snowy country lane in his grand carriage. Sarah smiled, imagining herself a well-to-do woman touring the countryside. She glanced at the colonel. He was all of the things the gossips had said—dashing, showy, smart—and yet she saw another side of him that was demanding, impatient and rigid. As they further discussed her father's fate, she sensed that he had a genuine concern for him. Perhaps Grandmother was right about the colonel. He was a man trying to rise above the squalor and move the community forward.

They were nearing the cabin when the colonel slowed the gelding and stopped the carriage. He reached for Sarah's hand and looked at her for a long time, then said, “I hope you enjoyed your work, Sarah. This has been quite a remarkable day, one for history.”

“Yes it has, Sir,” she said, careful to avoid his eyes. He was facing her now, edging closer until his breath was warm against her cold cheek. “Your embroidery lesson went well.” Leaning still closer, he said, “I admire your skills, Sarah.”

Feeling flushed and unsure of herself, she thanked him awkwardly.

“Are you spoken for, Sarah?” Colonel Black asked.

She hesitated. She thought about Reece. “No, Sir.”

“I'm surprised.” he said. “Then you are fair game.”

“Fair game, Sir?”

“Ready for courting, Sarah.” He chuckled. “You are an innocent.”

She was not sure what to think. His tone was kind and caring, but shallow and crafty too. She moved to the edge of the seat. He reached and pulled her to him and attempted to press his mouth on hers. She was quick and she gave him a strong heave with her elbow, pushing him back. She stared directly into eyes. “You have no right!” she screamed. “I am not your girl.”

“I meant no harm,” he stammered, regaining his composure quickly.

“Colonel Black, I am a free Negro woman and I am not for the taking.”

“I lost myself, Sarah. Please understand. I don't know what came over me.”

Sarah spoke sharply. “I thought you were different, a man with fine manners.”

“I apologize. Men have to learn new ways. I didn't mean to frighten you. Please, let this be our little secret. I could lose my position, my good name. Please understand—your smile encouraged me.”

Sarah looked at him for a long time. Her words were sharp. “A man who preys on young women does not need any encouragement. His instincts are those of a dog.”

Colonel Black turned his face from hers, wearing his shame like a heavy coat.

Lydia was standing in the doorway when the carriage arrived at the cabin. Her head bobbed back and forth like a piece of cork in water. She was hoping the colonel would come in and sit for a spell. To her surprise, he waved his hand and was quickly away. The broad smile left her face. Later, when supper was over, Grandmother grilled Sarah about every detail of the day, probing deep, knowing something was amiss. Sarah held back, sensing Grandmother's intuition at work. The last thing she wanted was one of the old woman's sermons. To satisfy her, she said, “It was a wonderful day. The children were eager to learn and it was not at all what I expected.”

Sarah watched as Grandmother stood warming herself by the fire. It came to her that there were many things to learn in this new place and the old woman's words were beginning to make sense.

Later that evening, deep under the quilts and coats, she wondered about Colonel Black. All that insisting that others have the holy virtue of discipline, yet he could not apply it to himself. A man so polished and trusted, but oh, like the jewellery the poor women were wearing of glass and paste, he too was a fake.