Douglass’ Women (24 page)

For the first time in a long while, I felt a desire to take up my paints. If I envisioned a portrait of our son-to-be, maybe Douglass would be convinced to lay his hands upon me, to touch me with his ever fulsome grace?

I was ashamed. Weaving fairy tales. And yet … and yet … was it wrong to love as deeply as Mama? To want to be loved deeply in return?

Mama and Oluwand
. One loved willingly; the other, unwillingly.

I was my mother’s daughter. I’d renew Douglass’ love.

He never mentioned the new baby. Never mentioned being a father twice over.

Did he ever write to Anna?

Suffering before enlightenment
. Why shouldn’t I fight for what I want?

I’d make Douglass love me as he’s loved no other.

I’d pray to God as I’d never prayed before.

I began my campaign. In the hotel, I allowed my hair to hang wantonly about my shoulders. Except for bedtime, I left the connecting door open, so Douglass could glimpse me, smell the heady scent of roses on my dressing table. I always looked my smartest; I even took to carrying a fan like Miss Hayward.

I sometimes caught Douglass staring at me as I translated his words, wrote articles for the German papers. Muslins easily exposed my figure, the arc of my neck, the length of arm between elbow and fingertips. There were many lovely women. But I’d been, all the while, admiring; helpful, never forward. I was his companion of the mind. I was the one who managed the money, the bills … that added grace to our lives.

Days and some nights, we worked. Either his room or mine. He was revising his autobiography.

“I’ll call it
My Bondage and My Freedom
. Less the tale of the runaway slave. More the tale of how my mind liberated me.”

“Brilliant,” I answered, biding my time.

And if I stroked Douglass’ fingertips when I passed a sheet of paper, or bent over him, my hair tickling his cheek as he sat, reading the latest article in the morning’s paper … or if I brushed my bosom against him when he
helped me from the carriage, or smiled sweetly when he spoke … Who was to say this was wrong?

Some would say, “Such a fallen state love has brought her.” But desiring union with a beloved could never be wrong. I’d be crafty. Smart.

Another summer, another fall, another winter. We got a letter from Garrison: Auld won’t sell.

“Damn him. I hate his blasted arrogance.”

“All in good time, Douglass.” I massaged his shoulders. “Live your fullest. In England, Auld can’t deny you that.” I pressed my lips to his hair. Douglass stiffened.

I murmured, “Good night.”

At the connecting door, I paused. “Ireland, Douglass. Let’s visit the heather. See if we can’t find shamrock green, the fairy people.”

He laughed bitterly. “I’m visiting the Irish while fellow slaves are suffering.”

“Don’t you think they hear of your travels? Don’t you think they’re happy for you?”

“When you’re a slave, Ottilie, survival is all that matters,” he chastised.

One step back. Another forward.

He agreed to travel through Ireland. We were both overcome by the heather, the craggy rocks, and endless dales. Sensual nature: lush greens, moist fog, and endless streams. We rented a cottage and propriety be damned, I hired only a cook and kitchen tweeny to help with chores. Douglass and I lived alone like man and wife. We went for wild rides, shot quail, and feasted on trout we’d caught. Evenings, we drank whiskey and read before a
roaring fire. Debated monetary policy, the English rule of Ireland. Though he didn’t touch me, we made love with our minds.

The way to Douglass’ heart was through subtlety. He must freely desire and love me.

He began writing poetry. I painted a miniature of a baby. Lighter than any child could be from Anna’s body. I knew he kept the portrait on his desk.

I encouraged Douglass to take up the violin. Strings were the music of the heart. And the instrument did seem to soothe and inspire him all at once. He had a talent for it.

I taught him the waltz. In the cottage, he embraced me and twirled me about the floor. His arms were reluctant to release me.

Small victories.

Douglass was a passionate man. But for all his control, I knew he thought of me. When I’d earned his bed again, I’d see to it that I never left it.

Garrison wrote again:
Auld will not sell
.

We returned to England. Douglass had been asked to debate two touring Southerners. The British wanted to see America’s civil discord in the flesh.

“Douglass, it’s a trap. What if they try to kidnap you?”

“Scotland Yard has assured me it won’t happen.”

“These men are beneath you. Not worth your time.”

“It’s my decision, not yours.”

* * *

I was glad I didn’t overrule him. Maybe it was hearing the Southern tongue or that the debate was two against one? But Douglass was inspired.

“Slavery is as injurious to me as it is to you.” And step-by-step, he got the slaveholders to admit their laziness, their drunken moments, their boredom. Made them admit that slavery had blunted their life’s purpose. Blunted their passion for self-advancement. It was like Douglass was converting them all to the Abolitionist Church. Even when one of the fellows, so furious, threatened to kill Douglass, the British gasped with certainty that it was slavery that had made him a would-be murderer.

For Douglass, it was a significant triumph. It infused him with new energy.

“Ottilie, I bested them. Reduced all their arguments to nonsense.”

“Champagne. This calls for champagne.”

Then, he kissed me. Maybe from sheer happiness, I don’t know. But I took full advantage of that kiss. “I’ve missed you.”

“I, you.” Still clothed, we lay beside each other. He held me in his arms. We talked as candles burned low, the fire died down. And though we grew chilled, neither of us gave way from our embrace on the bed. The night grew blacker. I could hear the pounding of his heart. Feel the tension radiating from his body.

Then, I heard a sigh. Mournful and poignant. His voice rose like a whisper, a disembodied spirit. “I’ve been trying to decide how to live my life.”

“Devoted to slavery’s abolition.”

“Of course. But beyond that. Am I always to be a black man, the runaway slave, living within and without the
strictures of a corrupt society? Sometimes I think what a coward I am, hiding here abroad.”

“Never.”

“Even now Master Auld is determining my life.”

“You’re doing much good.”

“Am I?”

“Champagne has made you morose.”

“Have I stopped one slave from being beaten, raped, sold from his family?”

“Policies change.”

“A war will come.”

“It may be the only way.”

“Yes.” He stroked my hair. “How beautiful you are. These months I’ve wrestled with my passion. I kept from you because of all the lessons I’ve learned about white women and black men. Breaking that taboo, at first, thrilled me. But it was unfair to you. And the weight of it came to unnerve me. I could be killed twice over—as a runaway and as someone who loved you.”

“Do you love me, Frederick?”

There. In the darkness. Hung my words. I heard his breathing. Felt his hand clutch my waist and pull me tightly, ever close to him.

“In my fashion, Ottilie. In my fashion.”

We kissed, our hands roaming as though we both had to be reminded of so much—of the curves, lines, and shapes of each other’s bodies.

“If love is to be real, it should be color-blind. Your whiteness should be as nothing to me. Only our spirits should matter.”

“Yes, yes, I understand.” I would’ve said anything to soothe him.

He stroked my face, as if, in the darkness, he could see me. Our mouths, breath to breath; our lips, almost touching. “If I take you now, it’s because you mean more to me than taboos, laws forbidding our pleasure.”

“Yes.” My lips lingered on his throat.

“If my people are to be equal, we must ensure a colorblind society. The best sight is to be blind.”

His arguments had come full circle. But I didn’t care. Not seeing my color was the same as seeing it. I would’ve much preferred him to say, “I missed your body.” But say what he would, Douglass had convinced himself to return to me.

I undid his cravat; for a time, he lay passive, yielding to me. Then, as he grew more and more aroused, he took me fiercely, thrusting inside me like a man searching for water in a desert.

“Take, Frederick,” I murmured. “I’ll give.”

Simple as that.

Home,” he shouted. “I can go home. Ottilie, look.”

He waved the letter before me like a flag. He was thrilled, almost giddy.

“Here. Friends have bought my freedom. Auld has consented to sell.”

I read Garrison’s loping scrawl and felt as though I’d been handed a sentence. Condemned to losing Douglass.

I smiled for him. He moved about the room, unable to keep still, his hands and mouth moving in concert. I heard not a word. Yet how could I say I loved Frederick if I couldn’t be happy for him? Yet, I felt as though my life’s blood was draining, as though a wicked witch had cast a spell over me.

Garrison’s letter fell from my fingers. I stared at my desk, at my busy translations. Tears welled. Glimmering as if in a pool of water were Douglass’ words:

“Oh, would that I was ever born to this
misery! To be a slave.”

“Ottilie.” He was moving, his arms grasping, reaching as if at stars. “All my life I’ve wanted to be free. Not just
act
free, but
be
it. Now the dream is real.”

“This is some trick?”

“Never. Garrison would’ve made certain all was right.”

“But your freedom papers aren’t here.”

He paused. Happiness drained from his eyes. “Garrison probably didn’t want to entrust them to a sea voyage. America to here, anything could’ve happened. Yes, that’s it.” His voice grew more vibrant. “I’m certain that’s it.”

“Yes. That’s it,” I said, knowing I shouldn’t steal his joy. But what of mine? “Promise you’ll stay, my love.” I didn’t like the tenor of my voice. Too much like those women who have no education other than what a man allows or gives them. I was Ottilie Assing. How had I come to this?

Weeping, I laid my head on the desk, not caring whether I smeared ink script. Not caring for anything, except my own lost heart.

His hand touched my shoulder. I grasped his hand, kissed his palm. He gathered me up, carried, and laid me on the bed. “Frederick,” I exhaled.

“Your loving made me feel I was already a free man.”

He loved me then—more gently than ever before. He loved me thoroughly and well.