Yellow Wife(76)

She nodded.

I whispered my instructions. Her eyes went big, but then she bit her bottom lip and quivered.

“It is the only way.” I pressed the letter and the coins into her hand. “The woman with the cleft chin.”

She nodded her head.

I slipped out and then returned to the Jailer’s room. When I pushed the door open, he sat bare chested and wide-awake. His eyes sliced into me.

“Where have you been?”

“I went to relieve myself.”

“I do not trust you.”

“I am wearing my dressing gown,” I said softly.

My feet carried me toward the bed and he reached over and grabbed my arm roughly, pinning me against the mattress.

“Is it that nigger again?”

“It is indecent for me to use your chamber pot.”

He climbed on top of me and held my thighs in place with his knees. “What is it about him that makes you disobey me?”

“You are hurting me.”

He bared his teeth. “You stay on the premises from here on out. No market and no more church.”

Then, to my relief, he let me go.

The next morning, I rubbed balm on my bruises and then hid them under a sweater. The girls barged into my room as I slipped into my shoes. Abbie entered behind them.

“Missus, you wearing that?” she said, referring to my simple work dress.

“How come we cannot go to the market?” pouted Joan.

“Papa prefers that you mostly leave the half acre with him. For your protection.”

I raised my eyebrow at Abbie. “I have sewing to do, so you will go to the market alone.”

Hester pulled my arm. “Protection from what?”

“There is ugliness in the world that beautiful, smart girls like you have no business being around.”

“I am brave,” said Joan.

“That you are.” I leaned down into their little faces. “You be good for Sissy today and Abbie will bring you back a delicious treat from the bakery. How’s that?”

All three ivory faces smiled up at me.

When we got downstairs, Sissy came through the side door.

“Mornin’ Missus.”

“Sissy.”

“Come along, girls.” She took them to the drawing room.

Abbie dragged herself into the dining room and cleared the Jailer’s dishes from the table. Her hip knocked against a saucer; it fell to the floor and shattered. I bent to help her. We were both on our knees when I caught her pinched expression.

“It will be okay.”

“Missus, I’s scared. You ain’t been whipped before.”

“We must be strong.”

“Marse sold July.” Her eyes shifted, wild with fear. “God only know what happened to that girl.”

I grabbed her hands to steady them. “You can do this. We must or he will die.”

“I’s want freedom too. Promise me.” She lifted her eyes.

Abbie had never asked for anything. Always did what she was told. “I promise.”

Abbie pulled herself together and I followed her out into the courtyard. The sun beamed down so brightly I pulled my bonnet lower over my face to protect my eyes from the glare. The same two men were always stationed at the gate. They asked Abbie for her pass every week, even though going to the market on Wednesday was the routine. She produced the paper and disappeared beyond the wall.

I passed by the stables on my way to the shed. Monroe stood holding a shovel in his hand but stared out into the bushes. Being away from us on that plantation had changed him. I’d thought giving him time alone would help him snap out of it, but he continued to be withdrawn.

“Son.”

“Morning.” He glanced at me, then picked up the shovel.

“You all right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Baby, what was it like working on that plantation?”

His face went dark and his shoulders shrank. “It be well as ’spected.”

“Expected. People will judge you on the way that you speak.”

He backed away from me. “Silver-head man did not like me speaking like white folk. Showed me a man with his cheek gone and told me to watch my uppity ways.”

My teeth gnawed at the inside of my jaw. “You are not a slave.”

“I am, Mama.”

“In name only, son. Not in your mind. Never in your mind.”

“I am a slave. No more pretendin’.”

“Monroe.”

He covered his ears. I grabbed his arms and spun him.

“Look at me.”

He drew his eyes up.

“You are the great-grandson of Vinnie Brown, who was the granddaughter of a Mandara queen before she was stolen off her land. Your grandmother was Ruth Brown, healer and medicine woman of the Bell plantation. Your blood runs deep.” I reached for his chin, but he pulled away. “What of my father?” My mouth gaped open. He had never asked before.

“Who is he? Know it ain’t Marse, ’cause he hates me.”

I did not know if I should tell him the truth or not. Just saying the words out loud could put them both in danger.

“He was a good man. Who loved me and would have loved you. Now, focus on being a good helper.”

“Now that July been sold, I gotta feeling I’s next, Mama. Ain’t nuttin’ you can do to stop it either.”