The Color of Freedom (3 page)

"Meadow, my dear, I want to compliment you on a fine dinner this evening." His words ran together like wet ink.

Alarmed, for her performance had been anything but fine, she murmured, "Thank you, sir."

She hoped he would go somewhere to sleep off his drink, but he staggered closer, his gaze dropping below her face.

"Grimes was right, by Jove. Why don't you come with me and we can talk awhile." She backed away. "I don't believe that would be proper, considering our positions."

"Nonsense!" He stepped after her. "You and I will be great friends."

"But I - I'm really very tired." Her eyes flickered side to side, desperate for an escape route.

With amazing quickness, he caught her, crushing his mouth against hers. Wine sloshed down the back of her dress and fear raked at her belly. She tried to scramble from his grasp, but he backed her against a table, knocking off her cap and ripping a sleeve from her bodice.

Fumbling behind her back for any kind of weapon, her hand closed around the handle of a heavy griddle. She lifted the pan and brought it down on his skull with all the force she could muster.

With a crunch, Lord Dennison crumpled to the flagstones like a castoff garment. Meadow dropped the pan, raising a hand to her bruised mouth. Her eyes widened with horror. She had just killed her master!

Staggering from the room, she tripped over the body in her reckless flight. Without pausing, she flung open the door and stumbled to the stables.

"Daniel!" The horses wakened and snorted in alarm. "Daniel!"

The young groom dropped lightly from the loft where he slept in the hay and flashed a sleepy smile. "Been entertaining late tonight," he commented.

"More than you know!"

He took in her ripped dress and wildly disheveled hair, and his smile crumbled. Wrapping her in a tight embrace, he stroked her hair, murmuring over and over, "It's all right, Meadow. You're safe now."

She sobbed out her terror until the tears left her deflated and shaking.

Daniel handed her a clean handkerchief, his face grim. "Tell me what happened." She wiped her face and blew her nose with trembling fingers. "I killed him, Daniel. He came after me and I killed him with a griddle!" Her tears began to flow again with the stirring of the memory.

"Then he didn't-? Oh, thank God," he sighed. "
Sh
, hush now. I'm sure Lord Half-brain will live to torment again. A little scrap like you could hardly smash a skull as thick as his. More than likely, he was ready to pass out with drink anyway. But you're not safe here any longer."

Meadow's eyes widened. "What? I can't leave! He could have me flogged for breaking my indenture!"

"Meadow, he could have you killed for attacking him."

"But he attacked me!"

"And he will again. You must leave tonight."

"But where will I go? What will I do?"

"Go to your father."

"My father?" Her voice was shrill.

"Meadow, calm down and take a deep breath." After she obeyed, he continued, "You told me once that your father lives in Boston."

"He does," she answered, trying hard to focus. "At least he did five years ago." "Does Dennison know?"

"I - I don't think so."

"Then go there. But not looking like that. Come." He dragged her to his small room at the back of the stables. Digging through a battered trunk, he pulled out a homespun shirt, leather breeches and thick, woolen stockings. "Put these on."

She held the foreign garments at arm's length.

"They might be a bit big, but they're the best I've got," he explained. "Now put them on. Hurry!" He left her alone.

She stripped down quickly and pulled on the clothes. The fit was uncomfortably wrong, and the fabric felt scratchy.

Daniel soon returned with a knife. "Decent?" he called. "Good girl. Now turn around."

He grabbed a handful of her hair and hacked at it with the knife.

"What are you doing!" she screamed, clutching her head and staring in horror at the red strands sprinkled on the floor.

"Meadow," he soothed, calming her as if she were a frightened filly, "your hair is a dead give-away. You'll be much safer traveling as a lad."

Tears flowed from her eyes. Weak with sorrow and shock, she submitted to the humiliation, covering her face with both hands.

"There, all done."

Sniffling, she ran her hands tentatively through the locks, refusing to look at the luxurious pile on the floor. Her fingers didn't recognize the cropped ends, and she felt hollow, like her insides, too, had been hacked with the blade.

Daniel covered her head with a shapeless felt cap and gave her a lopsided grin. "You look cute. Like a young boy."

He gathered the pile of hair and clothing and shoved it into a feed sack. "I'll burn these tonight, but first, you'll need some food. Stay here! If anyone comes, crawl inside the tool cabinet."

She stared at him with vacant eyes. He gently shook her shoulders. "Meadow, you have to be strong and think clearly!"

She closed her eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"That's it. Now is there anything else you want me to get for you?"

She nodded, gathering her wits with an effort. "In my room, beneath my pillow, is a Bible.
'Tis
the only thing I've left from Ireland."

"I'll bring it."

While he was gone, Meadow wandered around the room, inhaling the musky scent of horses. She touched each familiar brush, each comb. The metal hasps and tarnished buckles, hammers and nails, tongs and files - they were all friends to whom she bid farewell.

Daniel returned with a burlap sack, a tattered wool coat and worn leather boots a size too large. He ushered her quickly to the door. "Dennison's still out cold. You must go before he wakes. This will last you several days if you ration it.

"Try to reach the Miller barn before daybreak. It's up the road about eight miles. Hide in the back of their hayloft until sundown. And above all, do not let anyone see you until you are far from here."

He explained the route to Boston in detail. "You should reach it in a few weeks."

"What if I can't find my father?" she trembled.

"You're young and strong and smart. You know as much about horses as I do. You can cook and clean and sew. Something will work out."

He hesitated. "Wait here!"

He disappeared momentarily into the back room. "Take this," he said and dropped something small and cold into her hand.

She held a silver pendant, rudely made and badly tarnished.

"It was my mother's, made for her by a childhood friend. When you get to Boston, you can trust the jeweler who recognizes it."

She slipped the chain into her coat pocket, overwhelmed with uncertainty. Neither bold nor adventurous, she had no idea how to survive on her own.

She clutched Daniel's arm. "Come with me!" His eyes filled with pity. "You know I would if I thought it was safe. But two are easier to find than one. You must do this on your own."

He hugged her close and planted a kiss on her forehead. "I'll miss you, Meadow McKenzie, but you're made of good stuff. You'll see. Now go!"

The sun was just raising its sleepy red eye above the horizon as Meadow closed the door of the Miller barn. Terror had pushed her through the darkness when every jangled nerve begged her to rest a moment beside the road. Each second she feared the sound of hoof beats pounding the road behind her, but she had pressed on, slipping and stumbling on the frozen, rutted trail.

She dragged herself up the ladder and climbed into the hay mow just as the barn door creaked open. A sliver of pink light caught her full in the face. She froze.

Mr. Miller appeared below, tossing feed into the mangers of the animals. Then he pulled a wooden bucket from its peg.

"There, Suzie," he said, slapping a mellow bovine on the rump as he entered her stall. "Hold still now, old girl." He settled on a short, three-legged stool and pushed his head into the cow's flank. The milk collected in the bottom of the bucket with a gentle rhythm.

Meadow felt like a timid mouse as she watched him work, too frightened to move. What if the man chanced to glance up? She had to hide!

Holding her breath, she tried a hesitant step. The wood remained solid. She grew braver, creeping out of his line of sight. Just when she could no longer see Mr. Miller, a board groaned loudly in protest. She squeezed her eyes shut.

The sounds below ceased, and the silence ran on so long that Meadow could hear her pulse pounding like gunshots in her own ears.

"
Gotta
do
somethin
' 'bout them danged rats," the man complained, breaking the spell beneath her. "
Gettin
' big as horses, sounds like." Then the calm
swish
,
swish
resumed as he continued, unconcerned, with his work.

Meadow crept to the farthest wall, every muscle tense as a bowstring. Weeping softly, she covered herself with loose hay and dropped into an exhausted slumber.

∗ ∗ ∗

Daylight had waned when Meadow opened her eyes. Her stomach rumbled, and her body felt as if it had been trampled by a team of horses. Glancing into the farmyard through a chink in the wall, she could see no one about.

She pawed through the gunnysack Daniel had given her, blessing him again and again as she pulled out a large chunk of smoked ham, several boiled potatoes, two loaves of bread, a triangle of cheese, a tin cup and her Bible.

Grabbing the cup, she climbed stiffly from the loft and approached Suzie. The cow lowed as she slipped into the stall and reached for the familiar udder. A turgid swelling assured her the evening milking had not yet taken place. She filled the cup and drank the warm milk in large gulps.

She filled it again and carried it to the loft where she rationed her food carefully; Boston was still far off. Then she leaned back against the planks and waited for dusk.

Reaching into the sack, Meadow drew out her Bible. Given to her by her father the day they landed in Boston, the book was a complete mystery. Amos had been urgent - almost frantic - when he presented it to her.

"
'Tis
yours." He had spoken Gaelic in his excitement. "Keep it safe. These pages hold answers you will need."

The Bible was very old. Its leather cover crackled beneath Meadow's fingers as she flipped through pages worn soft as silk. The gold edging had lost its shimmer, and the margins were filled with notes.

Inside the front cover, she removed an ancient rosary strung with translucent green beads. The silver Celtic cross was tarnished, but beautifully wrought with ornamental scrolls and curlicues. Wrapping the leather thong about her hand, she studied the names on the page underneath.

Some of the names had nearly faded to illegibility; others she could read with ease. All five were women. Last in line, in dark new ink, was penned, "For Allison," and above that, in the same spidery, flowing hand, "Rosemary Donovan" - presumably the final recipients of the treasured family heirlooms. But why had they passed to her?

Many times over the last five years she had traced the names with her forefinger, puzzling over them. Could these women be ancestors of hers? Perhaps, but none of the names matched those of her mother or grandmothers. She longed to ask her father about them.

The last rays of the dying sun stained the pages orange beneath her fingers. She thumbed through them, looking for the answers her father had promised. Many of the underlined passages were familiar to her. She remembered Father Holden speaking on them in the little village church. She missed the tiny, balding old man.

"Meadow Wynn," he would say sternly during her frequent visits - he always called her by her first and middle names - but then his ancient face would crinkle with pleasure, creased like dry, cracked earth. "Come in, daughter, and set with me a while."

The memory of his sparkling smile and wise words had lent her strength during the long years of separation. She never learned what had become of the kind old man. The new landlord, a Protestant, had little tolerance for Catholicism, and she had not seen the kindly priest since the fire - the night the whole world had burned.

∗ ∗ ∗

Meadow pressed herself into the timbers of the barn while Mr. Miller performed his evening chores below. The sun slid into its cradle before the door finally creaked closed behind him and silence fell in the barn. From her high vantage point, Meadow watched him cross the yard and enter the house.

Clutching her rosary in one hand, she prayed a quick blessing on her journey. Then, like one of the mice who shared her hiding place, she crept from the loft and down the ladder. Her muscles still ached, but dully, not as when she first awoke.

Stark silhouettes etched themselves across the backlit sky. She stayed low to the ground, skirting the house with care. Inside, she could see the farmer sitting beside a blazing fire. A child played with a wooden toy on the floor, and a woman passed in and out of view. The scene dragged up warm memories of a humble cottage in Ireland. Her father used to warm his feet on the hearth in the same manner.