The Pattern of Her Heart (18 page)

Wade pulled his hat low on his forehead. “Very well. I’ll plan on seeing your folks in the morning—if it doesn’t rain, and if it isn’t too hot, and they don’t decide they’d rather sleep,” he replied dryly before riding off.

Nolan took the plate of food Alice Ann offered and sat down on one of the quilts Jasmine and Prissy had spread on the neatly manicured lawn. He wrapped a piece of thick ham in a slice of crusty bread that had been slathered with fresh churned butter and helped himself to a cup of lemonade.

“Are you going to come sit with me, Allie?” he asked.

“Me and Clara want to sit with Prissy. Mama can sit beside you,” she said.

Nolan laughed. “What if Mama wants to sit beside Prissy?” he teased.

“Mama always sits with
you,
” Alice Ann said matter-of-factly.

Jasmine and Spencer sat down on either side of Nolan. “I received a brief letter from McKinley,” Jasmine said. “He says Violet continues to do well. The baby is still expected in early December, though he says Violet is hoping for late November. If it’s a girl, they’ve decided to name her Madelaine Rose.”

“A girl?” Spencer shook his head. “I’m hoping the baby will be a boy.”

“I know you are, dear,” his mother replied. “You are rather surrounded by girls. However, if it’s a girl, it appears they’ve decided to name the child after my mother, although McKinley did say they plan to actually call the child Mattie Rose. I’ve never quite understood why you would christen a child with one name and then use another,” she said to Nolan. “If they don’t want to refer to the baby as Madelaine, why not simply name her Mattie?”

“But what if it’s a boy?” Spencer insisted.

“They’ve decided upon Samuel Malcolm Wainwright should they have a boy.”

Spencer nodded his agreement. “Sam. I like that much better than Mattie.”

Jasmine smiled at her son. “I’m certain you do.” She handed her husband a glass of lemonade. “I suppose this is McKinley and Violet’s way of paying respect to the family, though I would have viewed his help here at The Willows as a greater tribute. I even thought to write and tell him so but knew it would only serve to further anger him.”

“I’m pleased you restrained yourself,” Nolan said. “Your brother is acutely aware you’re unhappy he didn’t come along to assist us—no need to cause a breach you would later regret. Any other news from Lowell?” he inquired before taking a bite of the thick ham sandwich.

“No. His letter was brief—merely an update of Violet’s condition and the names they had chosen for the child.” Jasmine took a drink of the cool lemonade. “I’m interested in hearing how things ended with Mr. Wade.”

“Surprisingly, a number of the field hands agreed to go to Bedford and help with his crop. I truly didn’t expect any of them to entertain his request,” he replied. “For the life of me, I still cannot understand why they’re willing to go over there. Surely they realize Wade will treat them no better than his own slaves.”

“I thought they’d prefer to be here where they would earn their picking money. How are you going to handle the situation when Mr. Wade’s slaves are here?”

“I’m going to pay double on those days. I doubt whether any of Wade’s slaves are as motivated to pick as our field hands, so I offered to weigh out and pay double to our men.”

“That was kind of you, yet it doesn’t seem like enough of an incentive to make them want to go. I am truly baffled,” she said. “What do you think, Prissy? Why would they want to go to Bedford?”

The girl shuddered at the question. “Um, I don’ know, Miz Jasmine, ’cause that’s one of dem places I’d never even want to visit. That massa Wade is a bad one. But iffen you wanna know, me and Toby can ask around and find out what dem men down in the quarter is thinkin’.”

“Just so long as they don’t feel obligated to go over there because of us. We don’t want any of them feeling they must help Mr. Wade,” Jasmine said.

“Never know what some people is thinkin’,” Prissy said as she lifted a cup of milk to Clara’s lips and helped the child with her drink.

By week’s end, all of the men who had volunteered to assist at the Bedford Plantation stated they had erred and no longer wished to continue the trade. Nolan did not question their decision but was content to have the arrangement cease. He didn’t like dealing with Harold Wade or the man’s overseer and was pleased when their final labor exchange had been completed.

Accordingly, he was surprised to see Harold Wade and John Woodson, the owner of Rosewood, approaching the mansion on a cool evening some ten days later. He sat on the upper veranda and watched as plumes of dust kicked up around the horses’ hooves.

“Gentlemen,” Nolan greeted as he stood between two of the large columns forming the decorative colonnade that fronted the house.

“May we join you?” John Woodson inquired.

“Of course,” Nolan replied. He waited at the top of the outer stairway that led directly to the veranda. “What brings you to The Willows?” he asked as they reached the gallery.

“Distressing news,” Wade said.

Nolan noted the warning look Woodson directed at his companion.

“Why don’t we sit down?” Mr. Woodson inquired in his thick, syrupy drawl.

“Something I can help with?” Nolan asked when the men had finally made themselves comfortable.

“I’m certain that you can, Mr. Houston. I told Harold on the way over here that I’ve heard you’re a man of reason, and I know you’re going to make a sound decision,” Woodson said.

“Decision about what?”

“Seems the reason your
folks
were so willing to come over to my place and work is because they wanted to tell my slaves about what’s going on over here. They’ve created chaos for me and many other owners,” Harold said, his face now contorted in anger.

“Now, Harold, don’t get all riled up. We’ve come to talk like gentlemen,” John said. “You see, Mr. Houston, while you find nothing wrong in what you’re doing, your actions have caused unrest among our slaves. Coupled with the difficulties caused by the epidemic, this unwitting action on your part has changed a problematic situation into something much more complex.”

“I truly don’t understand why you are placing blame upon me. I sent no one to Mr. Wade’s plantation except at his express request. And I might add that he received more than he gave in the bargain. I did not complain, nor did the field hands. Mr. Wade was aware my hands were working without supervision and as freed men.”

“No! I did
not
know you considered them freed men. You told me they did not need supervision as you let them work whatever hours they desired. Now they’ve told our slaves that they’re going to receive money for their pickings and that you’re going to set all of them free once you bring in your crop.”

“It seems they secretly made their way onto other plantations while they were out with the passes you gave them and have now spread word throughout southern Mississippi and Louisiana,” Mr. Woodson added.

“I imagine this is somewhat exaggerated, gentlemen, but I’ll not deny what you’ve heard is true. My wife and I do not believe in slavery, and I’ll not apologize for our beliefs or what we’re doing. We’re bringing in the crop only because it was one of Malcolm’s final requests. Jasmine wanted to honor his wish, and we saw it as a way to provide funds for the freed slaves to begin their new lives.”

“New lives!” Wade spat as he shot to his feet. “I
told
you he’s crazed and that we’d get nowhere attempting to talk to him.”

“Sit down, Harold,” Mr. Woodson ordered. “Surely you can understand our concern, Mr. Houston. We not only fear unrest among our slaves but also believe they will begin to run away. And where do you think they are going to run to?”

“I have no idea,” Nolan replied.

“Why, they’re going to come
here,
where they believe they will receive safe haven. They think that if they can make it as far as The Willows, you’ll protect them and grant them the same freedom and funds as you’ve promised your own slaves.”

Nolan leaned back in his chair and folded his fingers to form a tent. “Though I would like nothing better, I cannot grant freedom if I don’t hold their papers. You need only explain that fact to them.”

“Do you think we are so naiïve that we believe you? Papers mean little to those of you who are intent on giving the colored man his freedom,” Wade snarled.

Woodson motioned for Wade to cease talking. “If you insist upon this foolishness,” he asked Nolan, “would you at least consider telling your slaves you are reneging on your offer so that word will spread and we can once again control our slaves? You can later tell them the truth when you actually set them free.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. I believe you men are worrying needlessly, and I suggest you tell your slaves the truth: I can free only the slaves that belonged to Malcolm Wainwright.”

Prissy waited anxiously at the end of the driveway, watching the road for any sign of Spencer Houston. He should have been home from school two hours ago, and now the missus was fretting something awful. She danced from foot to foot, uncertain if she should report back to the big house or continue watching. Surely the missus would realize she was still waiting at her assigned post. Maybe she should edge her way down the road a ways so she could see over the small rise in the roadway. Fear gripped her as she attempted to make a decision. She’d never gone off on her own. What if the missus thought she was trying to escape and run away?

A nervous giggle escaped her lips as she remembered she was now allowed to run away if she wanted. Slowly at first and then with a more determined step, she walked down the dusty road and up the small hillock. It was there she thought she saw something—or someone.

She moved more quickly and then began to run as she realized what she was seeing. “Spencer!” she screamed. “I’m coming, chile!”

Spencer was struggling to get to his feet when she reached his side. She tried to hide her horror. The boy’s face was swollen and bleeding, and there were cuts and bruises on his legs and arms.

“You lay still, Spencer. I’m gonna go get your pappy so’s he can carry you back home,” Prissy said.

The boy nodded his agreement.

“Who did this to you?” she asked before hurrying off.

“Boys at school,” he whispered. “They hate us ’cause we don’t believe in slavery.”

Prissy jumped to her feet. “I be right back with help.” She raced down the road with white-hot fear rising inside her—a fear of what had happened to Spencer Houston and a fear of the future.