The Horsemaster's Daughter (26 page)

“Thank you ever so much. We shall need a good number. We are quite deeply mired.”

Where the hell had she learned that melting Southern accent? Ryan wondered.

“And Mr. Beaumont, one more favor.” She leaned forward, put a hand on his sleeve and spoke in an intimate fashion that made Ryan bristle. “I have a confession to make as well. For years I’ve heard of a magnificent place called Bonterre. Now I’m enjoying my chance to see it.”

And suddenly Ryan grasped her mad plan. Transporting escaped slaves was a crime. She and everyone involved would become fugitives with a price on their heads.

And—God help them all—he was going to let her.

“Oh, Mr. Beaumont, you do go on,” Isadora said with laughter in her voice. “I won’t ever want to leave if you don’t stop being so charming.”

Strolling by her side in the falling dark, Hugh Beaumont straightened his cravat. “On the contrary, Miss Swann.
You
are the charmer, not I.”

“Sir, my head shall explode from its swelling,” she protested.

Ryan gave a derisive snort.

Beaumont ignored him. “I have fallen completely under your spell.”

She knew a moment of utter incredulity. The idea that a man, any man, might find her charming was beyond her comprehension. An astonishing novelty. Was she
really
being charming? Was this all there was to it?

She was amazed by the skills necessity could inspire. There was a time when Isadora hadn’t had a bold bone in her body; now it seemed that everything depended on her being bold.

She laughed again, amused by how easy it was to flirt and mimic the ways of a Southern social butterfly. “I insist that you stop it now, sir. My poor heart cannot take such flattery.”

“And God forbid,” Ryan muttered, trudging along behind them, “that your heart should suffer damage from flattery.”

Isadora chuckled silkily. Ye powers, was he jealous? Surely not at a time like this. He had to know how desperate the situation was. She had not discussed the plan with him. Watching from the side of the roadway, where they’d half sunk Hunter’s clarence in sticky black mud, she and the others had waited in the vain hope that perhaps Beaumont would sell the slaves to Ryan. When he had come out of the house alone, they knew they would have to set their plan in motion.

A stoop-shouldered man arrived at the head of a work crew. By the light of three torches, Isadora could see they were Africans. She tried surreptitiously to get Ryan’s attention. He could ruin everything. When his gaze met hers, he aimed a fierce stare at her. “Miss…Swann.”

She braced herself. “Yes?”

“I hope you don’t expect me to roll up my sleeves and unmire the clarence.” He flicked his thumb and forefinger fussily at his wrist.

She thought she might explode with relief. He seemed to be going along with her masquerade. It was quite a thing, to trust and be trusted by him on faith alone.

They reached the mired carriage, a clarence hitched to Hunter’s only remaining horse, a tired nag she hoped Beaumont wouldn’t recognize in the uncertain torchlight. Ralph and Luigi had done an excellent job sinking the rear wheels in the soft mud of the salt marsh that bordered the road.

The “mishap” had occurred near a dozen or so splitlog cabins arranged haphazardly around a common area of bare earth.

“Stand back, sirs, there you are.” Ralph motioned for Mr. Beaumont and Ryan to step away. “Don’t want to splash mud all over you.”

A number of Hugh Beaumont’s “people” had come to help. Odd how he called them people yet treated them like livestock. One man, probably the overseer, whistled and shouted orders.

Ralph Izard gave Isadora the briefest of nods, then cut his gaze away, the signal to carry on with their plan. She waved a handkerchief in front of her face. “Oh, my heavens,” she said breathlessly. “All of a sudden I feel quite faint.”

Beaumont put a supporting hand beneath her elbow. “Shall I help you back to the house?”

“That’s not necessary.” She tried to seem mortified. “It is a complaint of a very
female
nature.”

That stopped any further speculation on his part. Ryan pursed his lips as if holding in mirth and turned his attention to the mired coach.

“I shall find a place to rest over here.” Her heart pounded as she approached the slave compound. A woman standing by the well and another by the big open-air cookfire stared at her. What a horror she must look to them—a white woman coming uninvited into their midst. Chickens scratched and poked in the beaten-earth yard, and children played a game with sticks and rocks. They were no different from any children, trying to snatch the last moments of the day as twilight fell, yet in too short a time, they would lose that innocent abandon.

Isadora felt as if she had entered a new and alien world, a place closed to a woman like her. A self-protective and savage air hung about the slave women. She guessed that they cultivated this frightening facade, for a white woman walking into their midst could mean nothing good. She was familiar with the antislavery tracts published in Boston, but nothing she had read had prepared her for this direct experience of the squalor and hostility that pervaded the compound.

She despaired of being able to identify Delilah among these silent, suspicious, homespun-clad women. Her every instinct told her to flee, to hide, to shrink away from a place she clearly didn’t belong. Then she reminded herself of her purpose. Journey was waiting aboard the
Swan
for his wife and children. She couldn’t let him down. Besides, there had been a time when she hadn’t belonged on shipboard either, but she had become more at home there than in a drawing room on Beacon Hill.

Holding her head high, she went to the well. How did a Southern lady ask a slave for a drink of water? she wondered wildly. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Please, I’d like a cup of water.”

“Yes’m.” Without meeting Isadora’s eyes, the woman pressed on the well sweep and brought up a bucket.

As Isadora drank the slightly brackish water from a tin cup, her veil kept getting in the way. A scrawny cat streaked across the dirt yard, and a small barefooted girl raced after it, giggling and oblivious to the tension of the women.

“Celeste,” someone called, “you get yourself back here, right now!”

Isadora tried not to appear interested in the young woman in a threadbare dress. Isadora was glad for the darkness and the veil, because she felt a glorious smile coming on. Celeste was the name of Journey’s younger daughter.

Setting down her cup, she stepped into the child’s path and leaned down. “Celeste,” she said gently, “Your mama’s calling you.” She held out her gloved hand. “Come. I’ll take you to her.”

The child fell as still as a pillar of salt, her eyes big. Isadora cursed herself for not realizing that a stranger with a veiled face was as frightening as a ghost. Celeste sucked in a deep breath and formed her mouth into an O, preparing to let loose with a scream.

Isadora saw her plan falling to pieces. The child’s hysteria would draw Mr. Beaumont’s attention, and all would be lost.

But before Celeste screamed, Delilah arrived, grabbing her hand and yanking her away from Isadora. The child clung to her mother’s skirts, regarding Isadora with horror.

“Delilah,” Isadora whispered, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “Please, don’t run off. I have something for you.”

“I best be going, ma’am,” Delilah said, backing away. Her older child held fast to her hand. “It’s time to get my babies to sleep.”

It was all Isadora could do to keep from grabbing for her. She prayed no one would hear as she said, “I have something from Journey.”

A soft intake of breath was her only reaction. “Yes’m,” she said, very quietly.

A couple of the other women drew cautiously near. Isadora felt surrounded. Dear heaven, she was so close, yet how could she converse with Delilah now?

“Mistress needs to set a spell,” Delilah said calmly. “That’s all. Just needs to set a spell.”

She led her toward a mud-chinked cabin. To Isadora’s relief, the others stepped out of their way.

She sat on a crooked bench outside the cabin. Through the open door, she detected a faint glow from a rude stove with a teapot steaming atop it. The bed was a plank, the pillow a stick of wood, the bedding a coarse blanket.

Out on the road, the men were still busy whistling and hawing at the horse and trying to heave up the mired coach, but she knew she only had moments. She pulled something from her glove and pressed it into Delilah’s hand.

“From Journey,” she whispered. It was the love knot, fashioned from a lock of Delilah’s hair, on a leather strap.

Delilah’s rough, slender fingers closed around the amulet. “Lord be praised,” she said, so faintly that her children clutched at her.

“He’s worn it around his neck ever since the day he left you,” Isadora said. “We haven’t much time. If you wish to leave this place tonight, I and the men with me will help.”

Delilah’s white-rimmed eyes shone in the flickering light with terror and hope. And—God be praised—trust. The love-knot from Journey had convinced her. “Yes’m.”

As quickly as she could, Isadora explained the plan. “There is no time to think this over,” she cautioned. “But the risks are clear. You don’t have to go.”

“I know the risks,” Delilah said.

Isadora heard the conviction in her words. Delilah knew what was at stake better than Isadora ever would. In spite of her suffering, Delilah had the soft, womanly knowledge of her own humanity. She had birthed two babies and loved a man who was only half alive without her. Choosing between a lifetime of servitude and the threat of capture and punishment could not be easy for a woman with two tiny children. But Delilah had obviously made her decision. “I sorrowed a thousand nights for that man,” she said. “I’m through with sorrowing.”

“Then you know what to do.” Isadora stood, already moving away, not wanting to betray a particular interest in Delilah. She fanned herself vigorously and hoped Mr. Izard would notice, for that was the signal to move on to the next step.

The tense moments drew out unbearably. With a great rocking motion and a squishing of mud, with a chorus of male grunts and “heave-hos,” the carriage finally lurched up out of the mud. The horse, exhausted, gave a whinny and hung its head.

Isadora could hear the beating of her own heart in her ears, could feel the pulse of fear in her throat. She tried not to break into a cold sweat when she saw a quick flare of fire on the roof of one of the cabins. A woman screeched, and people ran toward the well. Luigi had touched a torch to the roof, creating mass confusion.

Meanwhile, Isadora walked quickly toward the coach, forgotten now in the excitement over the fire. Beside her, Delilah kept to the shadows, a child on each hip. No one seemed to notice as they went behind the coach. “Under the blankets, just there,” Isadora whispered.

Shushing one of the girls, who had started to whimper, Delilah complied. Isadora prayed the darkness and shouts and confusion had covered the maneuver. She waited patiently as the flames were doused. It didn’t take long, for the fire had no time to spread.

“Mr. Beaumont,” she called, “are things always this exciting around here?”

“Happily, no. I much prefer the genteel excitement of a visitor like yourself.” He bent gallantly over her hand, but when he straightened up, he looked at the clarence and frowned. “Isn’t that an Albion coach?”

“Oh, heavenly days, I wouldn’t say so. I hired it in Fairfield,” Isadora said breezily. “The driver and footman as well.” As Hugh took a step toward the rig, she moved in front of him. “And now I really must be going. But thank you ever so kindly. You have no idea how much you’ve given me tonight.”

She curtsied, and he bowed dramatically. “Miss Swann, you are a bright star in an otherwise dreary evening.”

“And you, sir, are a gentleman beyond compare. Come along, Mr. Calhoun,” she said to Ryan. Dear heaven, she sounded exactly like Lily. She prayed she had Lily’s dignity as she went to the coach and allowed Luigi to hand her up.

She dared not let herself worry about what Ryan thought of this charade. Gathering her skirts with great care, she seated herself as he got in behind her. Then the rig plunged into darkness, away from Bonterre forever.

Or so she hoped.

Weighing anchor in the dead of night was not the smartest thing Ryan had ever done as skipper, but thanks to Isadora’s maneuver, he had no choice. He should be furious, but he couldn’t get the grin off his face. He couldn’t stop thinking about Journey’s reunion with his family.

It had been pure magic. A moment he would savor for the rest of his days. Abandoning the carriage a mile from Bonterre, Ralph and Luigi had conducted their passengers to an inlet where Chips awaited in a bumboat. Rowing with all their might, they’d reached the
Swan
at moonrise. Delilah and the children, who had huddled in terrified silence the entire time, had spied Journey pacing the decks.

Ryan would never forget the look on Dee’s face when she recognized her husband by the light of a binnacle lamp. She had looked up from her seat in the boat, and Journey had looked down from the ship’s deck. Like a supplicant in church, she had lifted her gaze aloft, tightening her arms around her little girls and staring at Journey while the tears poured down her cheeks.

Isadora had wept unabashedly into her sleeve when Journey met Delilah at the boarding ladder. He’d held his girls in his arms and then, with a cry of joy so powerful it sounded like pain, he fell to his knees in gratitude, wrapping his arms around his wife’s waist. He pressed his cheek to her stomach and sobbed. Every sailor aboard, men who had been hardened by the sea and inured to emotion, began to weep, Ryan included. Even William Click rubbed at his eyes and honked into his bandanna.

Now, hours later, they had set sail in the dark, hoping to avoid the shoals Ryan knew like the back of his hand. The moon had begun to set, and its light created a silver stream on the glassy surface of the water. At the mouth of Chesapeake Bay, a fair wind filled the sails.