The Color Of The Soul (The Penbrook Diaries) (2 page)

He couldn’t do this. Why in God’s name
had he come back here? The entire state of Georgia reeked with the sweat and
blood of his brethren. Bile rose to his throat and he swallowed hard to keep
from retching all over the old belle’s clean floor.

The witch turned loose of his hand and
waved him to an emerald-green wing chair. He sat down, set his briefcase on his
lap and clicked it open, then removed pen and paper to take notes of the
interview. “I’m from Chicago. But then, you already knew that.”

She gave a loud snort-the kind only a
woman who has become such an icon that nothing she did could possibly
jeopardize her position among polite society could get away with. “You’re an
uppity colored, aren’t you? You never were as a boy.”

Andy’s defenses rose and he had to remind
himself
that this woman was very, very old. “I’m not a
boy any longer. And I haven’t been in Georgia for many years.”

She scowled, making her wrinkles run
together in her scrunched-up face. “Don’t act uppity with me. That skin of
yours might be lighter than Delta’s but you would do well to remember who you
are and where you came from if you want to get along down here. We don’t spoil
our coloreds the way the Yankees do.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sure you don’t.” Andy
fought the urge to laugh at her assumption that just because he lived in the
North, his light skin made any difference. He was still a colored man, and most
white people thought he wasn’t quite as good as even the dumbest and poorest
among them. His own kind automatically assumed he considered himself a higher
class of Negro, and sometimes that made life difficult. But they didn’t know
him. No one really knew him. All he wanted was peace. To live his life, raise a
family, and make a good living for his wife--if she’d take him back. It’s all
he’d ever wanted.

He glared at Miss Penbrook. What did she
know of being too white to be black and too black to be white?

“Made you good and mad, didn’t I, boy?”
The old hag cackled. “Good. Anger is an honest emotion. I can appreciate that.”

Swallowing a retort, he cleared his
throat and tried to remember that old people had the privilege of being rude to
whomever they pleased.

“Miss Penbrook.” He kept his voice
deliberately calm, a difficult task when he was forced to yell in order for her
to hear every word he said. “May I begin the interview?”

With a wave of her bony hand, she giggled
like a schoolgirl. “You’re trying to be polite, when you’d like to give me a
good piece of your mind, isn’t that right?”

“I assure you, Miss Penbrook, the last
thing I want to do is give you a piece of my mind.” Andy forced a smile.
“You’re much too important for me to offend you intentionally.”

She gave him a look of scrutiny as though
she knew he was only trying to placate her in order to get on with it. Andy
held his breath and waited to see if she would challenge him.

Suddenly, she spoke. “You want to know all about me?”

“If you please.” Andy expelled a breath.

A smug smile showed toothless gums.
“Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. Sometimes knowledge is freedom, and sometimes
it’s nothing but a chain around your neck. You might not like my story.”

What sort of game was the old debutante
trying to play?

“I’m a writer. I don’t have to like it.
All I have to do is record it. Would you like to start?”

 
She scowled and waved again. “Young
people are so impatient. But then, I suppose you have a story to write.”

“Yes, ma’am.”
Why else would I have
left my wife at a time like this to travel down to this godforsaken wretch of a
state?
He struggled to push away a sudden rush of memories. A shudder moved
up his spine. The sooner he was out of Georgia, the sooner his stomach would
unclench. This had better be worth it.

Miss Penbrook gave a sudden jerk of her
head and eyed him with such intensity that Andy had to fight the urge to look
away.

“Good,” she said. “I’m an old woman and
I’ve nothing to lose. Shall I begin my life with the beginning of my life?”

Andy nodded, recognizing her question as
the first line from
David Copperfield
.
Did she think her story would become a classic piece of literature? Yes, she
probably did. His stomach tightened with excitement. Maybe it would at that.

“I don’t remember much of the beginning,
to tell you the truth. I was very young. But the things I’ve heard. Oh, the
things I’ve
seen.
. .”

She fixed her gaze on a beam of light
shining on the wall alongside the bed. The faraway look in her dark eyes sent a
chill over every inch of Andy’s skin. “I’m not sure of my exact age at the
time, but I believe I was around four or five years old when my
parents.
. .”

Georgia,
1849

“For pity’s sake, Henry, what on earth is
the holdup?” Madeline Penbrook whipped out her pearl-handled fan and shook it
furiously in an effort to provide her own breeze against the stifling Georgia
sun. Much to her annoyance, the carriage had come to a sudden stop on the
cobblestone street.

After a long day socializing with the
wives of her husband’s planter friends-ladies with whom she had little in
common and for whom she had even less regard-Madeline’s head ached and her
stomach churned. She was in no mood for delays. All she wanted was to return
home and relax out of the sun.

“Well?” she asked her husband, who was
seated across from her, looking quite dashing in a pair of tan trousers and a
matching coat.

“Dearest, you mustn’t upset yourself.” He
studied her, his brow furrowed in concern.

“Fiddlesticks. Henry, if you do not
immediately inform me of the reason for this delay, I shall stand up and turn
around right here in this buggy and disgrace us both.”

He released a heavy breath.

Looking into his clear blue eyes and
deeply tanned face, Madeline softened her tone. “I am sorry to be so difficult.
But I simply must know, and your hesitation only makes me all the more
curious.”

He craned his neck to see ahead of the
buggy and frowned again. “It appears a slave has run off from the auction.”

Madeline shuddered and sank back against
the seat. “I hope the poor creature gets away.”

“Shh,” Henry admonished. He darted a
cautious glance at the four-year-old child lying across his lap, looking very
much like an angel from heaven. She slept peacefully, her mop of beautiful
chestnut curls splayed across her father’s arm. “Do you want Camilla to hear
you?”

The ear-shattering sound of a woman’s
wail cut off Madeline’s retort. She pushed to her feet before Henry could stop
her and turned to see what the ruckus was all about. Her heart caught in her
throat at the sight of a young slave woman, dressed in a neat calico gown, her
hair bound by a red handkerchief. One burly, barrel-chested man held on to her
while another tried to wrestle a bundle from her arms.

“Don’ take my chile! Please!” She broke
loose and threw herself at the feet of the first man in the crowd of
spectators. “Please,” she begged, clutching her child tightly to her breast.
“My little Catherina, she don’ eat much. An’ she kin already shine silver and
brush young missies’ hair. You be gettin’ a real good bargain on da bof of us.”

“What do I need with another pickaninny
running about the place?” The man asked tossed a cigar to the ground inches
from where the woman knelt.

Her pursuers grabbed her while she
desperately fought to hang on to her child. One of the men succeeded in
snatching the child, a little girl of perhaps three or four, from the woman’s
arms. “Get back up there, gal.”

 
“Ma!” Flailing her little body, the young
girl struggled against her captor, clawing the air as she reached for her
mother, who was being dragged back to the auction block. The little girl
twisted. She reared back and belted the man squarely in the jaw.

“Why you
little.
. .” His hand came down hard.

Madeline winced.

The child stopped struggling.

Madeline’s hand crept protectively to her
rounded stomach, tears stinging her eyes.

Henry reached for her hand and pulled her
gently back to her seat. He motioned for the driver to move the carriage
forward once more. “Don’t cry, darlin’. We’ll be back home soon and you can
forget all about this.”

Madeline turned on him. “Forget about
it?” she spat. “Do you think I shall ever forget the sight of that child being
ripped from her mother’s arms? It’ll haunt me all my born days. And even into
my grave.”

The slave woman’s cries, mingling with
those of her child, seemed to grow louder as the carriage inched forward in the
congested street.

“Don’t look,
Dearest
,”
Henry soothed.

“How can I not?” Her eyes scanned the
yard of greedy landowners looking to purchase their pound of flesh. Bile rose
to her throat. Anger shook her.

Unbidden, her gaze came to rest upon the
young mother, now spent with tears. The slave woman had been bared to the
waist. She kept her chin down. Her arms were crossed over her breasts as she
desperately tried to cover herself.

Suddenly the crestfallen woman
straightened, as though lifted by some unseen force, and glanced over the
crowd. Madeline caught her breath as the slave’s dark gaze locked with hers, baring
her soul and reading into Madeline’s.

It was as though she were reaching out to
Madeline, drawing her, calling to her.
Don’
let dem take my baby from me. What if it was you?
Your baby?

The child within her chose this moment to
make his presence felt. Tears burned her eyes and she glanced at her sleeping
Camilla. What if she
were
in this
woman’s place?

Once again, Madeline shot to her feet in
the moving carriage, then grasped the seat to steady
herself
.
“Stop the carriage, Toby.”
 

Henry leaned forward, concern flashing in
his eyes. “What’s the matter? Is it the baby?”

“The baby is fine.” Madeline quickly
opened the carriage door and hopped out before Henry could set their child on
the seat beside him and detain her.

She hurried through the crowd, which
parted easily at the uncommon sight of a white woman in such a place. The
bidding ceased as she strode to the front of the platform. “You, sir,” she
said, too overcome with indignation to be afraid. “Unhand that child this
instant.”

He turned his head and spit a stream of
tobacco juice through the air, then wiped his mouth with the back of a hairy
hand. He regarded her with
a
squinty-eyed gaze that
made Madeline feel as undressed as the poor woman on the block. “I ain’t
unhandin’ nothin’. This pickaninny is goin’ up there right after the woman.”

Swallowing back the nausea rising in her
throat, Madeline stomped the ground. “Pickaninny, my foot.” She glared at the
uncouth man. “That darling child is as white as you are.”

The little girl peeked up curiously at
Madeline, her mouth open in wonder. Madeline smiled into the precious round
face. A shy grin tipped the corners of rosebud lips, revealing perfectly
straight, white teeth, before the little girl ducked her head and stared at the
ground.

Madeline glanced up at the slave woman
who stood on the platform, hope shining in eyes luminous from tears.

Glaring at the slave trader, Madeline
motioned toward the woman. “Allow her to cover herself this minute. You should
be ashamed.” Turning, she stared at the entire lot of onlookers. “You should
all be ashamed. Now, I mean to buy this woman and her child. What is the bid?”

The bewildered slave trader named the
price.

“That’s fine. I’ll take them both.”

“Now, see here, lady. That ain’t the way
things are done.” He looked over her shoulder. “This your wife, mister?”

“She is.”

Madeline’s heart hammered against her
chest at the sound of Henry’s cold voice behind her. She knew she was in for a
stern lecture upon their arrival home, but for now she prayed God would give
her husband the foresight to see this through with her.

“Well, get her outta here. This ain’t no
place for a woman.”

Henry looked up at the slave, his eyes
moving over her. Unease nipped at Madeline’s stomach as she caught a flash
of.
. .something in his gaze. She shook off the disloyal
thought. Henry had always been a good and faithful man.

When he spoke, she pushed the rest of her
suspicion firmly to the back of her mind. “I believe my wife has expressed an
interest in purchasing this female and her child.” He turned to the crowd of
men. “Any of you plan to do more bidding?”

The crowd shuffled, but no one spoke.

Digging her nails into her palms,
Madeline held her breath and prayed.
Father,
grant us mercy to save this one woman and her child. It’s a small thing, Lord.
Only two of
Your
precious children. But I beg of
You
, let it be.

“Come, gentlemen.” The slave trader
appealed to the crowd. “Surely, you will not give up this fine female on the
whim of a woman--lovely though she may be.”

A tense moment of silence passed until a
voice rose from the crowd. “Get them out of here and show the next one.”

With helpless frustration, the trader
glared at Henry. “They’re yours.”

“Thank You, Lord,” Madeline whispered.

Henry stepped toward his wife. “I will
take care of the business. Get the woman and child to our carriage and wait for
me.”

“Yes, Dear.”

She eyed the unkempt man still holding on
to the child. “I will thank you to turn loose of the girl, sir.” She squared
her shoulders and met his steely gaze head on.