Authors: Georgina Young- Ellis
“Until the first week of June,” Cassandra replied.
“Perfect. I shall send you my card.”
They had arrived in front of the hotel.
“This is where we are staying. Goodnight, Mr. Evans,” said Cassandra, holding out her hand to him. “It has been a pleasure.”
He took her gloved hand and kissed it. “The pleasure is all mine.” He turned to Evie. “Miss Bay—”
Evie held out her hand and he took it and pressed it to his lips.
“I am enchanted.”
“Thank you, sir.” She giggled slightly. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight ladies, I hope to see you again very soon.”
“The pleasure will be ours,” replied Cassandra.
We lay down for the day in the spring grass of an open field so the sun could warm us. The area seemed to be deserted. We had not seen any sign of civilization for a day and a night, so we thought we would take the chance. We had fallen asleep and had maybe been sleeping a few hours when we were woken by a voice. “Hello!” it called. I started up, fearing the worst. A tall black man stood there, shadowing me like a tree that had suddenly shot up in the middle of the meadow. He said nothing but: “Come with me.”
He led us to a shack in the woods off to the west of the field. There he had a wife. They were older than us, about as old as my ma and pa might be. The lady gave Lill her bed and wrapped her up good, and we all shared between us the food we had. She made Lill some broth from some greens and helped her drink it. Those folks had a sad, haunted look to them and did not talk much. I asked about their children, and they said they had all been sold away. All seven.
We slept on the floor, just glad to have a roof over our heads. The man, whose name was Elijah and the woman, Katie, would not let us leave until Lill was better, though we knew it put them in danger. Their master’s house was just a little ways farther into the woods, but since he did not have any reason to come down to the slave shack, we were able to stay unseen for about four days.
From Caleb Stone’s narrative, as remembered by Dr. Cassandra Reilly
*****
Travel Journal, Evelyn Bay: Sunday, May 15, 1853—We’ve now been here a week and a day. This morning we went to church service at All Angels. Reverend Williams gave a great sermon, and a wonderful choir of mixed black and white, men and women, sang traditional hymns and Negro spirituals. I was glad to see integration, at least when it came to the music. Change sometimes comes step by step. Afterward there was a big dinner in the reception hall, of ham, fried chicken, biscuits, greens, noodle casserole, corn, iced tea, and cake.
Caleb came to sit by me again, and I noticed that Miss Johnston and Miss Ketchum were observing us carefully. He broached the subject of painting; wanted to know more about my work but would still not admit to being an artist himself.
I am so utterly drawn to him. He’s very wise for someone so young and has such a gentle way about him. I want nothing more than to be in his company and to talk only to him, though I fear by doing so, I do not appear modest enough. He also does not seem in the least hesitant to speak openly and confidently to me, though I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m white.
Mr. Evans came in to eat after the service and sat with our little group. Miss Johnston and Miss Ketchum have now taken us under their wing, as they have him, and I think consider us exclusively their own. I eventually joined the conversation, and Cassandra and I answered their questions about our lives in Boston. Finally, when Miss J. and Miss K. found out we were staying at the Dylan Hotel, being most shocked at our going to the expense of such costly accommodations, insisted that we come and stay with them at their home (which apparently they share—another oddity). Everyone chimed in, in favor of the idea, Reverend Williams, Mr. Evans, Samuel, who also lives there, and Caleb. I could see that Cassandra was completely taken aback by the offer. I know she values her privacy and still thinks of these people more or less as strangers. But they began to win her over with their powers of persuasion, and I could see that what made her seriously consider the offer was the mention of the fine grand piano that resides in their parlor.
Later, here at the hotel, after some discussion, she agreed to it. We sent a note over to the address they gave us, and we shall await their reply in the morning. We may even move our things over tomorrow if they find it convenient!
*****
When Cassandra and Evie arrived at #214 West Fifteenth
Street, Cassandra noted that the large, two-story home with a peaked roof was neither “modern,” like many of the Fifth Avenue mansions that had been built within the last ten years or so, nor very old. When the house had been built, probably about fifty years ago, she estimated, the area around Fifteenth Street, including Union Place, had been mostly farms.
As the carriage pulled up, Samuel, Miss Ketchum, and Miss Johnston hurried outside to meet it. Samuel hauled their bags into the house, and Evie paid the driver while the two hostesses fluttered about. They ushered Cassandra and Evie up the steps, across the covered porch, through the entryway, and into the spacious parlor of tall windows, a high ceiling, and sturdy furniture, worn with use. Cassandra looked over the room with interest: chairs of fading brocade and velvet clustered around a large, ornate fireplace opposite the doorway, and a low, marble table, covered with books and lace doilies, nestled in their midst; beyond, there was a sofa with a rounded back and carved claw feet, strewn with needlepoint pillows and positioned near a window. A small pedestal table rested nearby, on which stood a single porcelain vase holding fresh pansies. A few, large, mismatched chairs completed the scene in the comfortable-looking corner. A large, greenish carpet with a pattern that was now unrecognizable covered most of the oak floor. By the nearest window, at the front of the house, the grand piano dominated.
Cassandra noticed that Evie was standing still, staring at a painting on the wall above the fireplace.
“Do you like the painting, Miss Bay?” Miss Johnston asked. “It was done by our very own Caleb. We think it is astonishing and have begged him for others, but he will not relent.”
“It is magnificent,” Evie whispered.
Cassandra walked up to take a closer look. “Incredible!”
Something about it seemed familiar. The longer Cassandra looked, the more each brush stroke seemed to stand out. Some were so thick they had tangible depth. There was a raft made up of several broad swipes of brown, criss-crossed to create the illusion of wood. The water of a river was angry swabs of blue and gray and green, stabbed with dots of white, indicating foam; mud was a smear of brackish dark green and black that bled down the bank. The large strokes were in contrast to the delicate pointillism that made up a straw hat on a tall man and the pattern in a woman’s dress, only noticeable upon close examination. In sharper focus was the faded blue fabric of a ferryman’s coverall’s. Trees lining the banks in the background faded into the distance, lost in fog. From every angle, from close and from far, she found a new perspective or detail.
“Oh, Caleb will be quite gratified to hear you say so,” Miss Johnston was saying, “though I fear he will not take the compliment easily. He is not confident in his abilities.”
“But how can he not be?” Evie blurted. “It is one of the finest paintings I have ever beheld!”
“Well, she should know,” interjected Miss Ketchum, “being a student of art.”
“Yes, she does know,” murmured Cassandra. She was transfixed by the images in the picture. The despair was palpable, and yet it conveyed a certain tentative hopefulness.
“Shall we have a tour of the house?” proposed Miss Johnston.
“Perhaps our guests would prefer to sit with a nice glass of lemonade,” suggested Miss Ketchum.
“I would love a tour,” said Cassandra, turning to them.
Evie was examining the gilt frame around the painting. Cassandra touched her arm.
“Yes,” agreed Evie distractedly, “a tour.”
“Wonderful,” said Miss Johnston. “Well, as you can see, this is the parlor, and there is the piano, Mrs. Reilly. Would you like to try it?”
“Oh, Cass, do not be so pushy,” said Miss Ketchum, “I am sure she does not want to sit down to play right this minute.”
“Yes, let us continue with the tour. I shall try it later.”
“Very well. Anyway, this house was Mother and Father’s, and Father spent many a happy hour at that piano, or at his violin. He filled this house with music.”
Cassandra halted. “You mean, your father, Benedict Johnston?”
“Well, yes. Have I mentioned his name?”
“I believe you must have,” interrupted Evie. “Or else it was your grandfather who mentioned it.”
“Oh, yes,” Miss Johnston continued, “well anyway, after Father died a few years ago, Mother went to live at the rectory with Grandfather, and I stayed here. My brothers, James and Jeremiah are both married, and Lillian and Samuel graciously offered to come and live with me so I would not rattle around in this big house like a lonely old maid.”
“Old maid?” Miss Ketchum chuckled.
“Your mother,” said Cassandra. “Why have we not met her yet?”
“She has had a touch of a cold.”
Miss Johnston went on chattering as she led them through the house and Cassandra knew it was inevitable that she would meet Ben’s wife, Sarah, soon.
She had this basic information about the family: Benedict had married Sarah in 1823, when Ben was forty-one and Sarah was twenty-five. They had their daughter Cassandra, obviously named after herself, in 1824, James, whom Benedict must have named after her own son, in 1826; and Jeremiah, after Sarah’s father, in 1828. Benedict had become a member of the Grand Symphony Orchestra in 1826 and had died in 1848 at the age of sixty-six.
She was silent as her namesake continued to rattle on about the house. The young woman led them from the parlor into the library, where Cassandra could imagine Benedict sitting and reading for hours on end. They then moved into the sitting room, a small, cozy space with an end table and oil lamp in between each pair of six upholstered armchairs, a place where Sarah probably spent time with the children, hearing their lessons, or doing needlework.
They continued into the dining room, dark with carved wood paneling and heavy furniture, and then beyond into the sunny breakfast room. They were then brought into the kitchen, a large space with a great wooden work table in the center, a sink with a pump, a cast-iron box stove, and a cavernous brick hearth where three chickens roasted on a spit, heating the room to about ten degrees more than the temperature outside on the warm, spring day.
A large, black woman of middle age stood in front of the stove, stirring something in a pot. She turned around as the group entered.
“How do y’ do?” she asked with a quick nod of her head.
“Anna Mae, this is Mrs. Reilly and Miss Bay, our guests for the next few weeks.”
“Y’all as skinny as these other two,” she said in a thick, Georgia drawl, indicating Miss Johnston and Miss Ketchum. “I can’t feed ’em enough to fatten
’
em up.”
“Now, Anna Mae,” Miss Ketchum said, giving the woman an affectionate hug.
“Go on, now, let me get my work done. Y’all get outta here.”
“Anna Mae likes to pretend she’s cranky, but she is really just as sweet as can be,” said Miss Johnston. “We just bought that new stove for her last year, and now she will not let anyone get near it.”
“That’s right. Don’t want nonna y’all messin’ with my stove.”
“Very well, we will leave you be, Anna Mae,” said Miss Johnston with a wink at Miss Ketchum.
“Dinner at two. Don’t be late,” she called as they continued out the back door into the garden.
“Oh, this is divine!” cried Cassandra, stepping out with the others into the sunshine.
The backyard wasn’t large, but it contained a tidy vegetable garden, flowerbeds, several fruit trees with benches placed beneath, a substantial stack of firewood along a fence, and a rustic wooden table and chairs situated under a simply constructed gazebo. It was all surrounded by a picket fence about waist high, and though the yard was fairly well shielded from those on either side and at the rear by the shrubs and trees, Cassandra could see that none of the others was as pretty.
“This is Samuel’s domain,” stated Miss Johnston, she motioned to him standing amongst the sprouting rows of vegetables, hoe in hand. He tipped his hat and continued with his work.
Cassandra walked closer to inspect. She reached down and yanked a wisp of grass from between the heads of new lettuce and tossed it into a pile of weeds.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Samuel said, stopping what he was doing. “But I do not want the ladies to dirty themselves with this kinda work.”
“Oh, I do not mind; I love to garden!”
“Yes, well—”
Miss Johnston stepped forward and tapped Cassandra lightly on the arm. “We try to stay out of Samuel’s way back here.”
Cassandra quickly backed away from the lettuce, mortified. She had obviously gone too far. “Forgive me, Samuel.”
“No, ma’am, do not worry. I only meant that—”
Cassandra felt something she never had before, a sense that, as a white person, she must somehow be deferred to. “No, no, let me allow you to get on with your work. I have intruded.”
“Before Samuel came, the yard had fallen into disrepair,” Miss Johnston jumped in. “Now we can sit out here in the gazebo out of the sun, and have a little breakfast in warm weather, or take a cup of tea. And we have fresh vegetables and fruit for at least half the year. The garden has never done better than under his care.”
Samuel shot her a smile.
Cassandra nodded and walked back to join Evie. “He certainly does a wonderful job. It is just perfect! May I ask, what is that little building back there? Is it a shed?” She indicated a small rectangular hut that was hidden behind an apple tree in the farthest back corner of the garden.