The Loom (23 page)

“No, it’s not.” None of it.

He reached for her hand and moved forward, beside her, until they stood at the top of the radiant Victorian. She glanced down the flight of steps. It had been a long way up, but here she was. She had made it. Everything she ever dreamed of.

“Will you marry me?”

It was hard to hear the words and not think of the one she left behind. See his face, his smile. But by law, he was not her husband. Their ceremony was not acknowledged, not accepted by the world. And she was here now. Had decided deliberately to come to this side of the world. She was free. There was nothing she wanted more. John knew that.

Still, a sea of guilt swam through her blood, made her feel faint, like she needed to sit down, stretch out somewhere. She gripped Jackson’s hand instead.

If she left, where would she go? Who would take her in and give her this? Everything. She scanned the vibrant green prairie stretched before her and the man who offered her a chance to have it all. Own it all.

In that instant, she found her life with the one who offered her the world.

“Yes.”

The moment Caroline said it, Lydia died.

No one cheated Jackson.

He was too sharp, his mind too keen to be deceived. He picked up on every gesture, caught every glance, every fluster, every fidget. He prided himself on paying attention. It was the one thing he got from his old man and it served him well.

Especially at poker.

“I fold.” Rex threw his cards down and pounded the table, the sound echoing in the barn, bare besides Jackson’s rickety chairs and an old saddle shriveled up in the back corner. A thick layer of hay covered the floor, but it was the smell of animal flesh long gone that clung to the walls, forever reminding them just where they were.

Every few hands, Rex and Henry complained about the stench and inquired. Finally, Jackson gave in and confessed.

“You remember the ball, the two young ladies who were here? I introduced you. The one with the auburn hair. Big green eyes.”“How could we forget?” Henry chuckled.

“Well, she’s with me.” He nodded his head toward the manor. “Staying with me.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right. Listen, I don’t want anyone to know. Not until we’re married. She’s a decent woman. So keep your mouths shut.”“And she took a liking to you?” Rex nudged Henry in the ribs. “How’d you pull that off?”

“Fate, my friend.” Jackson smirked. “Fate.” He raked the coins together and stacked them in six neat rows. “A fool and his money.” He howled.

“And ain’t that just what we are.” Henry pushed two bits and a dime across the table. “Letting you pay us Monday and giving you the chance to win it back by week’s end. Sounds like a pair of fools to me.”

“Your day is coming.” The knot in Rex’s thin neck bobbed as he dragged a sip of hard cider. He shook his bony finger at Jackson. “I swear, one day you gonna lose big.”

“Don’t count on it.” Jackson heaped the cards into a pile toward Henry. “You’re up.”

“Oh no. I’ve had enough for one night.”

Henry laid his hands over his swollen belly and cleared his throat. “Enough cards, that is.” He laughed.

“What you talking about, Henry?” Rex leaned in. Jackson cared less. He was itching for another round.

“Well, boys, I found me a lady.” A rusty wide grin spread across his face under the straggliest moustache.

“What’s Mae think about that?”

Henry shrugged, spat a wad of tobacco in the glass jug at his side. “This one, she’s…” He raised his brows, whistled. “This one’s a keeper. Makes me remember why I’m a man.”

“You better watch yourself.” Jackson leaned back on his chair’s hind legs and rocked in the hay. “Don’t seem like Mae’s the easy type. Come on, boys, let’s play one more hand. I want all my money back.”

“You’re telling me something’s wrong with my needing something more? Something different?”

“I don’t know. Some men do. I can’t imagine I will. You’ve seen Caroline.” She was more than enough. He raked the cards together, shuffled them, and dealt with speed.

“What’s that suppose to mean? Mae ain’t no heifer.”

“No, ’course not.”

“This ain’t about her.” Henry snorted. “This is about me and what I need.”

“Right.” Jackson nodded. “I was just saying.”

“He’s saying Caroline ain’t the common woman.” Rex picked up his cards and groaned before curses slid out the corner of his mouth. “Caroline’s a beauty. Those green eyes, I mean, he ain’t lying.”

“Hey, hey! Enough.” Jackson threw a dime at Rex’s head. “Get your own lady.”

“I don’t care what he says. Believe me, Rex, whenever you do hitch up with one, you’re gonna always want something different.” Henry leaned in close. “Ever want one of them coons?”

“Get out!” Jackson flung his cards at Henry and slapped the table.

“Come on, now. Tell the truth.”

“Never.”

“You ain’t never thought about it?”

“Not ever.” Jackson squeezed his eyes shut. “Makes me sick just thinking about it. I don’t even want you to talk about it.”

“There’s some pretty ones out there.” Rex licked his lips. “I wouldn’t mind—”

“I’ve never seen one.” Jackson shook the image from his head. He’d never be so desperate. Pump a bullet through his own skull first if he had to.

“Well, maybe if I wasn’t with Mae. Maybe I wouldn’t need more if I had a woman like Caroline.”

Jackson stared at his bald friend and snickered. Right. Like he could be so lucky.

“Got some new men coming in the morning,” Jackson said one evening ten days after Caroline arrived. “Few slaves, few workers, so be careful walking the grounds.”

The last thing Caroline wanted was another slave.

Another Annie sneaking peeks at her in sideways glances, curtseying before her but cursing her the moment she walked away.

She tugged at the neckline of her beige chemise, stretching it loose, looser, and paced her bedroom until a plank on the wooden floor creaked long and eerie. The sound struck her and for a moment, she stopped to sit on the windowsill, gazing out at the grassy meadows two stories below.

When thoughts of John emerged, how he had walked with her, shown her the beauty of vegetation outside the colonial, she shut them out, shoved them down with new memories. The strolls, the dinners, the rides with Jackson.

Caroline walked over to her dressing table and sat. She picked up the brush and stroked the waves of her dark auburn hair, arranging a chignon at the base of her nape with steady hands. So easy now. She had done it countless times. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Pretty.

But something rose inside her. It was old, familiar, a flash of a feeling of who she had been. Sometimes it erupted so suddenly she didn’t have the chance to press it down like the hairs over her scar, no time to cover it with loose white powder, or tie it down with the lace of her corset. Sometimes it just was. Loose, untamed, boundless Blackness, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. When she fought it, a panic set in.

Brass bristles slipped from her hand and hit the floor. Creak… She startled and fought the urge to flee.

Stooped on the windowpane, Caroline watched Coloreds descend from a covered wagon. The last man in a dark cotton shirt and denim leapt from the side of the cart with one hand and joined a man in a straw hat standing, his back to her.

She froze when he turned.

A skin as dark and smooth as velvet.

Her fingers pressed against the glass, remembering, recalling the days of Midnight.

He walked with the other man toward the direction of her window, laughing, occasionally surveying his new surroundings with a glance. A dimpled face, a mouth of pearls she would never forget.

He had not run. Still a slave.

When sadness rose, she yanked it down under the folds of her satin dress. When love rose, she willed it to die under a White hand, a white lie against her heart.

She glanced down at the man below. He was staring at her. Standing there, alone, staring up at her.

He had seen her.

When fear rose, she snatched the curtain shut and walked away.

Annie shuffled left, shuffled right, lugging the wooden bucket step by step until she reached the back porch of the Whitfield manor and set it down between her ashen legs. When the water settled two, maybe three, centimeters from the top, she smiled at the achievement. Very little was wasted trotting it down the hill. The master would be proud.

She had no idea how so many slaves could take their work so lightly. Working for the master was like working for the Master Himself. If He was here, she would treat Him best she could, but since He wasn’t, she did what she could for the ones He placed over her. It was her job to please them.

Inside the manor, she jiggled the bucket down beside her and dipped a cracked wooden bowl into the water to wash up.

Scrubbing her hands, she paused briefly to peel a blister from the center of her palm.

“Annie,” Mr. Whitfield called from the dining room. When she walked in, he was already seated, his fingers interlocked, resting on the cherry-wood table, his brows furrowed.