Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (15 page)

The doctor looked stricken. “I’m not a slave owner. I didn’t come here for the purpose of buying slaves. I came to treat a sick guest at the hotel. Are you sure that Leighselle has been taken away by her father-in-law?”

“Yessuh. An he took Birdie, too. He stop at Judge’s house afore bringing me here. I heard him say Judge made it legal for him to do what he do, for him to sign for Leighselle.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Leighselle doesn’t need a guardian or an executor.”

“Leighselle ain’t herself. She acting like she out of her mind, or something. I be worried sick ’bout her.”

The auctioneer’s assistant, with sharpened cane in hand, strode out to the pen. “All right, you there, come along. Look lively and smart.” He pointed the stick at Addy-Frank. “Dry your face. No crying on the auction block.”

“Please, Doctor. Please take me with you,” she implored.

“I’m sorry, Addy-Frank. I’m not in a position to buy a slave. I’m a poor country doctor. I don’t know how I’d manage.”

Addy-Frank backed away from the fence, her expression fervent. “Please, I beg you, suh. Please.” Her words trailed off as the assistant prodded her with his stick toward the rotunda.
 

“Once you are up for sale, tell the buyers what all you know how to do. Sound smart, look sharp. You’ll go to a better owner the more you can demonstrate all the ways in which you can perform,” instructed the assistant.

The room was bright and smelled of tobacco from the cigars of well-dressed men who paced the room, assessing the goods to be sold. A faint smell of bacon lingered on the air, the grease used as a body gloss. A fine sheen on the black skin was preferred; grayish, dull skin meant tuberculosis, which could kill a sale. The auctioneer’s assistant applied a variety of tricks to get the bids climbing until he heard “Sold!”
 

The crowd was lively, the buyers anxious to snag a bargain at the end of the selling day. Addy-Frank walked to the block, head high, her face glistening with tears.
 

“She may look frightened, but there’s wisdom in those eyes, I can see that right off,” claimed the auctioneer. “Tell these buyers what kind of work you’ll do for your new master. Speak up.”

“I a nurse, an a nanny, an a seamstress. I can cook some, too. But mostly household duties.” And I can sew curses into men’s pockets that come back and land on my head. She ran her hands into the pockets of her thin dress, feeling for the threads of a curse someone might have secretly sewn.

“Let’s start the bidding off at one thousand dollars. A nurse, nanny, seamstress, and cook, all rolled into one. Do I hear a thousand? One thousand dollars. All right, how about seven hundred. Seven hundred dollars for a lifetime of wisdom.”

“The price for a skinny bag of bones should start at two hundred,” said a whiny female voice in the crowd. “She looks frail enough to blow away, and then what? Lose your investment, that’s what.”

“I’ll give two hundred,” shouted Doctor Flemings, his hands in a white-knuckle grip on his medical bag. He swallowed hard, clearing his throat. He kept his eyes on the auctioneer and away from looking at Addy-Frank.

“I have two hundred here with the good doctor. Two twenty-five anyone? Two hundred twenty-five?”

Someone across the room raised the bid.

“Two hundred fifty is now to you, Doctor. Yes? No? Will you go?”

Doctor Flemings nodded.
 

Back and forth the bidding went, climbing in increments of twenty-five dollars. Bidders dropped off until two remained. The echo of the gavel banging hard on the hickory dais concluded the sale.

“Sold, to Doctor Flemings, for three hundred and seventy-five dollars. Congratulations, Doc, you now own a fine piece of property there.”

Doctor Flemings assisted Addy-Frank into the front seat of his buggy, his voice a thin attempt at cheerfulness. “We have patients coming into the clinic all afternoon. I used to tell Miss Leighselle that I could use a good nurse. I expect she would be pleased to know that you’ll be working with me.”

“Yessuh. Thank you, suh.” Addie-Frank looked straight ahead, pressing the back of her fist against her mouth, holding in the scream that begged to be released.
 

“And if you don’t like nursing, I can put you to work sewing gowns and blankets for the Women and Children’s Hospital. How would you like that?” The doctor took up the driving lines, turning the cart horse away from the slave pens.
 

“I like that fine, suh,” she said, tears streaming down her face. The back of her fist pressed harder against her mouth, the silent scream piercing and shattering her heart.

*****

Birdie shook Leighselle by her shoulders. “Wake up, Miss Leighselle. That man be here again.”
 

She referred to Seamus Flanders as “that man,” and every Tuesday he paid a visit to the nunnery in Alexandria where he had Leighselle ensconced for the purported reason that he needed a private place to allow his daughter-in-law, who suffered from severe psychosis, to have her baby in safety and seclusion. Seamus made a generous donation to their orphanage, ensuring their cooperation.
 

Leighselle, sitting in her rocking chair, blinked open her eyes. “I’m awake.” Indeed, she was wide awake. Clear-headed. No longer in a drug-induced fog, thanks to Birdie.

When they had arrived at the nunnery, Birdie was allowed to sleep on a floor rug at the foot of Leighselle’s bed. Every morning and evening, Sister Francis would knock on the door. Birdie, answering the knock, would receive a tea tray, the instructions never changing.
 

“Put the sugar cube in the tea cup before you pour the tea. Make sure Madame drinks it all before you bring the tray down to the kitchen.”
 

But on Tuesday mornings, there were two sugar cubes. And, on Tuesday mornings, Birdie noticed that Miss Leighselle would behave strangely. She would stumble her steps, mumble her words. She would fall asleep while she was eating, while she was bathing, even while she was sitting on the chamber pot. She’d say things and use words that Birdie didn’t understand. She’d stare out the window, crying, clawing and scratching at her skin.
 

Other sisters would pray over her—invocations lasting all day long—strange litanies combining oils and incense and chanted readings, raised voices calling on God’s healing power, calling on God to enter the body and guard the soul of the unborn child.

The scene frightened Birdie, who would look on in terrified silence.

One day when Birdie was scrubbing the pantry, she overheard Sister Francis speaking to Massah Seamus about something called laudanum treatments for Miss Leighselle. The conversation she heard between the two—how the drug affected Leighselle, how to wean a baby from the drug’s addiction—frightened her more than the sisters’ chanted prayers to an all-powerful God who could cast people into burning pits of fire.

Birdie began crumbling the sugar cubes into the chamber pot, then emptied it with the waste. As Leighselle started to show signs of clarity, Birdie confided in her, telling her what she had seen and heard and how she had been taking care of Miss Leighselle by not putting the strange, brown sugar cubes in her tea anymore.
 

“Ain’t nobody’s baby need to be born addicted to God and laudanum,” Birdie had said, after Leighselle had explained to her what the word
addicted
meant.

They made a plan. So as not to draw suspicion, Leighselle would behave as if she were still under the influence of the drug until she felt recovered enough that the two could escape. They would hide clothes and food, and when the moment was right, they would sneak away. Weak, her legs unsteady, Leighselle figured it would take a month before putting her plan into action.

Sitting in her rocking chair, she looked at Birdie, her eyes clear and bright. “After the usual meeting with Seamus, when you remove the coffee service and take it to the pantry, leave the pantry unlocked.” Leighselle spoke with clarity, her voice strong. “The small valise you packed is still there, right?”

“Yes, Miss Leighselle, behind the flour sacks. I’ll check again when I go down to empty your chamber pot, but there’s nothing to empty. Wasn’t nothing in there to hide the sugar cubes. You sure you don’t need to go?” Birdie asked, her voice sounding anxious.

“I’m sure. Just pour some water in there and cover it with paper. It’ll be all right. Wait. Shhhh. . . .” Leighselle pressed her finger across her lips.

A knock. Sister Francis opened the door. “I’m ready to escort you to your meeting. You look well this morning.” She smiled.

*****

“Thank you, sister,” said Seamus, looking up when he heard them enter the receiving room.

Leighselle shuffled into the room, her billowy, flowing gown a discrete cover-up for her eight-and-a-half-month pregnancy. As was the custom, she took the chair opposite Seamus, and as always she stared at him with hollow, sad eyes and a vacant expression.

He was sitting in a seat by a window that overlooked a pond with a fountain, its spray fanning out high into the air. Swans and ducks floated under its misty umbrella in languid circles.
 

He was watching out the window, looking on as some of the orphans skimmed the moss and trimmed the cattails that grew at the edge of the pond.
 

“Hard work builds character. Better they learn it young,” he said.
 

“Yes, sir.” Sister Francis gave a generous smile of agreement. “May I have a word with you out in the hall, Mister Flanders?” She motioned for him to join her, and Seamus followed.

Leighselle stared at the chair vacated by Seamus and waited, anxiety churning her stomach. Did Sister Francis overhear her and Birdie’s conversation? She glanced out the window at the swans, wishing for wings that she might fly away.

After what seemed an eternity, they reentered the room, Seamus taking his seat, Sister Francis serving their coffee and sandwiches. All seemed normal. Their smiles were pleasant, their voices cheery, their conversation about his donation to the orphanage the apparent reason for the private tête-à-tête.

Leighselle breathed a sigh of relief, secretly pocketing two sandwiches as Sister Francis excused herself from the room, allowing her and Seamus their privacy.

“Week after week, Leighselle, and we go through this silent face-off all over again.” Seamus tented his fingers, elbows on his knees, resting his chin on the peak.

Leighselle sipped her coffee and ate the sandwich on her plate, saving the cookie for Birdie, following the same routine as every Tuesday. With half-closed eyes, she let her head sway, portraying the actions of one under the influence of laudanum. She knew the behavior well.

Seamus glowered at her. “Sign these papers and I’ll have Henry on the next ship to America, where he can raise his child in luxury and comfort. His heart will be broken that his wife died in childbirth, but he’ll get over it. Don’t sign, and Henry will never see me or this child again. I’ll send him a letter that you’re a whore unfit to be the mother of my grandchild and that I’m raising it myself.”

Leighselle stared at the document and the pen. Her fingers began to itch. Her scalp tingled like a thousand needles pricking the surface—not enough to draw blood, just enough to irritate. A metallic taste lingered in her mouth, a familiar sensation that she remembered from before. In a sudden reckoning, she dropped her coffee cup and it clattered to the floor.

“I’m not a whore.” Leighselle’s eyes wanted to close, but she forced them to remain open, to focus.
The coffee
…
 

“I can describe for Henry your body intimately, the triangular scar on your backside low enough for me to smell your womanhood, the large mole on your right breast just above your nipple. It was common knowledge that you let whores sleep in your sewing shop. It wouldn’t be hard to prove you an unfit mother.”

“You know my body because you forced yourself on me.” Leighselle’s head throbbed, her pulse speeding the blood too fast through her veins.

“You asked for it, Leighselle. You seduced me. You seduced my son. I’m sure there have been many other men.” He sat back and crossed his legs, his voice conversational. “My good friend, Judge Reeder in New Orleans, would swear to anything I asked. He owes me many favors.”

“Henry would never believe that about me,” she said, her shoulders drooping a fraction, her posture curving inward.

“It would be better to be thought dead than thought a whore. Sign this document giving me custody of the child.” He held out the paper and pen. “You’ll have a nice, tidy sum to get on with your life. I’ll get on with mine and put you behind me forever.”
 

“If I don’t sign, you take my child. If I do sign, you take my child and let Henry raise it. Either way, I lose—you win.” She pressed her hands against her ears, trying to quiet the ringing. “If I sign, it appears I’ve signed away my child for money, like some common whore.”
 

Seamus leaned forward, his eyes a hard, blue slit. “You were mine, Leighselle. You were always mine. I told you I was coming back for you. But finding you with my son—knowing you
gave
to Henry what belonged to
me—
now the grandchild.”
 

“I didn’t know Henry was your son. I—I never belonged to you.” The room was stifling. Prickly heat irritated her skin, perspiration beaded her brow—the room began to close in.
 

Seamus stood, looking down on her. “I can allow Henry and this grandchild in my life. I
will not
allow you ruining my life. Removing you . . . is the only alternative. It’s the cost of making you pay for what you’ve done.” Then, he turned and strode to the door, opening it. “Bring her in.”

Sister Francis stepped into the room, Birdie in tow—her eyes streaming tears, her bare legs covered in the stripe marks of a whip.

Seamus strode back to where Leighselle sat, clutching the arms of the chair, steadying herself. Leaning close to her ear, his voice harsh, he pointed to the door. “Take a look at your darkie. We both know the truth. She’s what happened when your father fucked Addie-Frank. Sign the papers, Leighselle. It’ll make life easier on your little half-sister, Birdie.”