Wild, Beautiful, and Free(33)

It felt good to know he had such faith in me. If he had asked me before Miss Temple had left, I might have accepted and happily. But I was different now.

“Yes, sir. I would like, I think, a change of scenery.”

“Of course, I understand. You haven’t ventured much beyond our little neighborhood since you arrived. Grace Church on Sundays and really nothing more.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I may have something for you. I’ve been reading the letters that arrived during my absence. Let me find the one I’m referring to.”

He leafed through the various pages of stationery on his desk until he came to one that he perused closely.

“Yes, this is it. A friend of mine referred a Missus Livingston to us. She lives in southern Ohio at a place called Fortitude Mansion. It’s in the vicinity of an unusual community—a small village founded by a population of former slaves freed from a single plantation. She is seeking a teacher to establish a school for the children and, if I guess correctly, most likely the adults too.”

I couldn’t believe it. Hadn’t I just considered Ohio as a place to explore? And now here was an opportunity to not only teach but create a school where there was none, and my pupils would be new Fannys and Jeremiahs, and I could open up the world for them.

“Does this interest you, Miss Bébinn?”

“It is exactly the type of situation I had hoped for, sir. Can you help me secure it?”

“I’ll write to Missus Livingston today to recommend you.”

“Thank you, sir. I’d like that very much.”

And so it was that the arrangements were made. Missus Livingston accepted me and sent directions, and in about three months’ time, I was on a train with my trunk and headed west.

When I arrived in Dayton, I left the train with a handful of people. It must have been easy for the man with the bushy yellow hair to find and approach me. He had a hat pushed down over his hair, and it seemed to escape and fluff out when he removed the hat and addressed me. I thought he was badly in need of a haircut.

“Are you Miss Bébinn?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Missus Livingston sent me to fetch you. I’m Stephen. Let me get your luggage, and we’ll be on our way.”

“Thank you, Stephen.”

At the carriage he loaded my trunk and I got in.

“How far are we going?”

“About ten miles, miss.”

The horses ambled along. I was excited to be so near the end of my travels and very curious about Fortitude Mansion. I wondered if it would be as grand as the name sounded. I touched the cushions of my seat. The carriage was comfortable, but it wasn’t as big or as fine as one of Papa’s or the one the Holloways rode in to church on Sundays. Judging from the plainness of both Stephen and the carriage, I guessed that Missus Livingston would be just as plain. This would give me a better chance of liking her. But she must be kind. She must be some sort of benefactress of the village for her to inquire about a teacher for the children of former slaves. I wondered if she had any family living with her in the mansion, how far it was from the school, and where I would live. It was only at the end of these ruminations that the question of Will I like it there? entered my mind. When it did, I realized I didn’t have to be concerned, because if I didn’t like it, I didn’t have to stay. I was free to do as I wanted.

I let down the window and looked out. Dayton was behind us. It was nowhere near the size of New York City, but it was a city of considerable size. I was grateful there was plenty of daylight left so I could see the countryside that was to be my new home. There was a large river twisting through the land. Eventually the road rose away from this river. When we made the final approach to the mansion, I saw that it was situated on a generous but not-too-steep hill.

We slowly ascended the drive, which wove around into a semicircle in front of a large house. But it seemed more like a cross between a house and a small castle. It had a porch that went all along the front like a house. But the posts supporting it were made of stone and were wide and rectangular, not the elegant white posts of a Southern home. The part above the supports had the up-and-down block pattern that I’d only seen in illustrations of castles. But above that Fortitude looked again like a house, with two stories of windows and topped by a red-tiled roof flanked by four chimneys, two on each side. The coloring of the stone was a light sandy brown, which I guessed must have come from an area quarry. It was a curious house, and I liked it right away.

A young woman in a black dress and blue-and-white apron opened the wide mahogany door. “Welcome to Fortitude, miss,” she said. “Missus Livingston is waiting for you.” I followed her across a square hall with high doors that, I assumed by their height, enclosed large rooms. The one I stepped into, though, located more toward the back of the house, was a small room that seemed to be a combination of parlor and office. There was a small writing desk by the window, which looked out over an immense garden. Near the fireplace, empty for the summer, were a round table covered with a burgundy cloth and two wing chairs. Some knitting work lay on one of the chairs. A vase of yellow roses decorated the table.

A lady sat writing at the table, and when I came in, she rose, and I saw that she was tall and elderly but moved with ease and elegance as she walked toward me and extended her hand. She wore black as well, but her dress was made of silk, and her apron was a pristine white. Her light-brown hair was streaked with white. She smiled kindly, and I knew at once I had nothing to fear.