Patricia Potter (19 page)

William Mathis was a distant cousin, whom Meredith had visited on other occasions. She usually outwore her welcome quickly with outrageous demands and giggly flirtations. Already, gentle hints were being dropped that she continue on to New Orleans where, she had loudly pronounced, she was going to meet with her miserly banker. But first, she had told William Mathis that she just had to stop and visit her very favorite relatives, particularly the oldest son, Beau. Beau had disappeared that day and not returned, much to her public consternation and private amusement. As if she would have any interest in a wastrel like Beau.

She spent much of her time on a bench in the fine gardens, half dabbling at her canvas, half watching Jim, one of the gardeners.

He had captured her attention as soon as she had arrived. There was a pride in his bearing, a resentment simmering in his eyes. She had spoken with him several times, and though he tried, he could not quite conceal his intelligence. Intelligence was not, she knew, a desired quality in slaves. Too often it meant trouble, and those who demonstrated such an unbecoming trait often ended up in the fields until all the spirit was worked or beaten out of them. Therefore it was best to show a blank face to one’s masters.

Jim had obviously mastered the skill, she thought as she mixed a horrendous pink, its color ranging somewhere between salmon and fuchsia. She intended to use it for some equally atrocious camellias taking bloated shape on the canvas. While her right hand played at painting, her eyes stayed on the tall, almost midnight black slave who was trimming hedges around the pink and white camellia plants. Camellias, she thought idly, were stubborn plants that seemed to bloom at their own pleasure, not anyone else’s. Now, despite a cold winter, rich blossoms clung to their branches, daring a frost.

People were like that, she mused. Some would dare anything while others did the expected, risking nothing.

The slave working diligently in the garden was, she was gambling, like the camellia, not the begonia, which had to be nurtured and nursed along.

Levi Coffin had taught her to identify those slaves who were determined to be free, who would risk all to grow as they wished, not as someone else wished them to. There was something in the bearing and the eyes of certain slaves that proclaimed their longing for freedom, their willingness to sacrifice to achieve it. Meredith had learned to look for, and recognize, that particular quality.

Today was the day, she thought, that she would drop the words and see whether or not he understood them. If he did, all should be easy enough. If not, she would have to take more time, be more careful.

Freedom’s light.
The words had sped many slaves, perhaps hundreds, on the long dangerous journey to freedom. She had revealed its path to perhaps only twenty, no more, for she had been taught to be careful. But she was proud of that number. She knew of only one who had been caught and brought back, and he had not revealed her involvement. He had not been whipped but had been forced to wear an agonizingly painful and humiliating iron collar around his neck and head for six months. The collar, a frequently used punishment for runaways, was fitted with horns and bells that made it nearly impossible for the slave to sleep any way but sitting and, of course, the bells announced his presence wherever he went. Meredith knew about it because he had tried a second time…and had made his way to Canada.

Now all her attention was centered on Jim, and she secretly blessed the slave for this since it took her thoughts away from Quinlan Devereux.

She had not seen the riverboat captain again after the ball. She had returned from the river in the late afternoon the day after and retired to her room where she had stayed, pleading woman’s indisposition, until he left. Since she often used such an excuse when she wanted to be alone, no one questioned it. And so he had left, his disturbing presence now only a ghost. But it was a ghost that wouldn’t quite disappear and that materialized at the most unwanted times.

Like now.

Meredith looked down at her canvas, wanting to create beauty rather than this poor ragged caricature, a flower without life, without focus, without substance. Sometimes she felt that way, especially during the past few months.

She stood, her eyes intent on the black man leaning over a bush. She walked over and stooped, her hands caressing the white bloom of a camellia.

Her eyes looked upward. “It’s as white,” she said slowly, “as freedom’s light.”

She saw his back stiffen, felt the tension invade his body. “Wouldn’t know nothin’ ’bout that,” he said slowly, but Meredith saw the glimpse of hope in his eyes.

Meredith’s hands stayed on the bloom. “It’s perfect. You have a special touch. It’s a skill appreciated north of here.”

The slave’s hands faltered slightly. “The massa’ won’t sell.”

Meredith hesitated. This was always the most dangerous step. “There are other roads…a railroad, perhaps.”

“I heared of lots o’ railroads,” he replied cautiously.

“This one goes North. It follows the North Star.”

There was a silence, a long deliberating silence, and Meredith held her breath.

He slowly nodded.

“Do you wish to take passage?”

“My wife?”

She inclined her head, as if studying the flower. “But no more. Two weeks after I leave. I’ll bring you what you need before I go.”

Suspicion hung heavy in the air, but Meredith was accustomed to this. She would have been worried, in fact, if it had not been there. “I’ll be back tomorrow. But swear you’ll wait two weeks.”

“Mistress…I wait two months iffen I knew it wuz real….” She watched as his fingers tightened against the tools, his knuckles turning white.

“It’s real…I’ll give you names of people to contact, where you can get food and help.”

“Why you doing this?” She was often asked the question, and it was almost an accusation. Meredith understood. They both knew he was risking his life.

“I had a sister sold.” She had found this the best answer, the most accepted one.

“What that matter to you?” It seemed scarcely a good reason to Jim. Masters often fathered slave bastards, but seldom cared except to appreciate the added wealth they brought them.

“I loved her,” Meredith said simply. “And one day I’ll find her.”

There was so much sincerity and confidence in her voice that Jim believed her. Still, he was uncomfortable. “I’ll do what you say,” he said, and moved away, his pruning knife flashing among the green leaves.

Meredith packed her paints, feeling the familiar conflicting emotions of fear and exuberance. She had chosen well. She knew it.

In three days, she would leave for New Orleans, and another confrontation with Brett Devereux. Once more she had spent all her yearly stipend; most of it had gone to the Underground Railroad for settlements in Canada, some to the detective hunting for Lissa, and the remainder for her own travel. She would have to submit to his examination again, and to his disapproval. But at least he wasn’t odious, like his brother.

And William Mathis and his wife would be pleased at her upcoming departure. Meredith had made a thorough nuisance of herself, rising late and demanding special meals. She had disparaged the young men in the county, except for Beau whom she had simpered over until he escaped. She’d complained about the cold which seeped into her bedroom. She had, in short, made herself thoroughly disagreeable. The Mathis family would be glad to see her go; they would never connect her with Jim’s disappearance in a few weeks.

She took one last look at her painting. She grinned. It would make the perfect farewell gift for Beau Mathis.

Despair settled over Daphne like a shroud as she packed Miss Meredith’s and Miss Opal’s clothes.

Everything seemed so hopeless at the moment. They were going, she had been told, to New Orleans for an indefinite stay.

She didn’t question her sorrow, or how it happened to attack her after so many years of acceptance of her position. Cam had opened a door and let light in, and now it was closing again.

But despite the darkness of her thoughts, her hands never stopped moving. She had learned long ago to separate her mind from her hands.

Just weeks ago she had been so happy. After the fear-filled visit in the barn with the large but gentle man, she had allowed hope to build. Despite his own position, he had had such confidence that she could escape. It had been so strong, so unshakable, that Daphne had been filled with a courage and elation of her own. Somehow, she knew she would be free, and so would he. The thought had filled her with a joy she had never known.

And then Miss Meredith had announced suddenly they would be leaving in two days’ time, and all her hopes went tumbling to the ground. The old feelings of helplessness returned in double measure. How could she have ever believed she could escape? Could be free? Why had she trusted Cam’s confidence when he hadn’t been able to free himself?

It had been a dream, nothing but a foolish dream. A tear trickled down her cheek and landed on the silk gown she was folding. The material was lovely, but the dress itself, with its flounces, had little appeal. Yet she wondered how such cloth would feel against her skin.

Disliking herself for such frivolous thoughts, she carefully packed the gown in one of the two trunks Miss Meredith had brought. Her hand touched the paper-wrapped package near the bottom, and she wondered briefly what it was. Sometimes it seemed Miss Meredith had secrets of her own.

On the afternoon before she left the Mathis plantation, Meredith went once more to the camellia garden, praying she would find Jim there. He was there as usual.

In a pocket in her dress was a plainly wrapped package containing a small compass, a knife, and twenty dollars. Kneeling to look at a camellia, she gave him the locations of two stations in Mississippi that would then direct him to the next station, and on and on. Food would be buried in a pouch underneath the largest visible tree in the event the station master was gone. She bade him repeat the names and the directions until she felt he had them firmly in his mind.

“Travel only at night,” she warned. “If you leave the river, follow the North Star. If you doubt anyone, wait for them to mention ‘freedom’s light.’”

He stuffed the small package in the waist of his pants. “Bless you,” he said awkwardly.

“Good luck,” she whispered. “I hope to hear soon that you’ve made it.”

He swallowed, unable to say anything more. He was being given a chance that he thought might never come.

“Remember—wait at least two weeks.” With that last warning, she was gone.

He didn’t turn to look after her. He didn’t have to. Whether or not he succeeded, he would never forget her, never forget one feature of her face.

Jim’s left hand went to the bulge at his waist and then returned to the pruning knife. He would be just about finished with the pruning in two weeks.

Meredith had always liked New Orleans. She had sent word ahead to Brett Devereux to engage rooms at a small respectable hotel on Chartres Street for herself, Opal, and Daphne, and upon docking, she engaged a carriage to take them the short distance to the hotel.

She had been relieved to find the
Lucky Lady
gone from the landing. Relieved and yet strangely disappointed.

Meredith planned to do some shopping. It was part of her pattern, that and the quest for more money from her trustee. She would purchase another dress, not that she needed or wanted one. She took no pleasure in purchasing the monstrosities, although she did derive a certain satisfaction in defying her dressmaker whose advice she never took.

And painting materials! She needed painting supplies, canvas and additional oils, even a new sketchpad. And, when she was able to slip away from Aunt Opal, she would visit Elias and give him the painting by “M. Sabre” that she intended to send North. Perhaps she would put a tiny bit of sleeping powder in Aunt Opal’s chocolate tomorrow night. And Daphne? Perhaps an errand?

Yet Meredith was reluctant to send the girl out at night. She was too pretty, and mulattoes were often considered fair game. She wished, in fact, that she hadn’t brought Daphne, but she didn’t quite trust her brother.

The carriage rolled through the streets toward the hotel, and Meredith stopped worrying as the sights of the French and Spanish architecture came into view. Her artist’s eye loved anything beautiful, and New Orleans personified the word with its wrought-iron balconies and widow’s walks and lush private gardens. The handsome homes basked beneath canopies of live oaks and were framed by palms, azaleas, bougainvilleas, banana trees, and other tropical plants. But even more interesting to her was the city’s personality, a rakish arrogance that taunted and defied her best efforts to capture it on canvas.

Like Captain Devereux.

Since his visit to Briarwood, she had tried to sketch him again. Perhaps if she could capture his image, his essence, she would no longer be so strangely discomfited. But although she felt she had captured the boy correctly, she had never been satisfied with her depiction of the man. The mouth was elusive. But mostly, it was the eyes, eyes that gave the impression of blankness, though something inside her knew this wasn’t so. She felt those eyes worked at being inscrutable, which meant there was a great deal to betray. But then she smiled at her own whimsy and wondered why she couldn’t just accept the obvious, why she always had to probe beyond the facade.