Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
Mrs. Browne appeared at my door just after breakfast, her face carved from the same careful neutrality she always wore. But something in her eyes was different. Softer, maybe. Or sadder.
“Miss Carter.” She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “I need to speak with you. Quickly.”
My stomach dropped. Nothing good ever started with those words.
“What’s happened?”
She moved to the window, checking the courtyard below before turning back to me. “Mr. MacLeod was punished this morning. In the courtyard. Twenty lashes.”
The room tilted. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself.
“What? Why?”
“There was an incident yesterday in the fields. One of the slave children, a little girl, was chasing a cat near the road where the supply wagons pass through. She ran directly into the path of the horses.”
I could see it already. Could picture it with horrible clarity.
“Mr. MacLeod pushed her out of the way,” Mrs. Browne continued, her voice quiet. “Grabbed her and rolled them both clear just before the horses would have trampled her. Saved her life, no question.”
“Then why—”
“Because Overseer Williams was watching. Because Mr. MacLeod is supposed to be learning his place in the fields, not interfering with plantation operations. Because the widow has made it clear that any servant who shows defiance in any form will be made an example of.”
She paused. “And because protecting others seems to be something Mr. MacLeod cannot help himself from doing, no matter the cost.”
The weight of it settled over me like a stone. He’d saved a child. A little girl. And been whipped for it.
Because of his nature. The same nature that had protected me.
“Where is he now?”
“In the quarters near the stables. One of the enslaved women, Abena, is tending his wounds. She has some skill with herbs and healing.” Mrs. Browne’s eyes met mine directly. “I’m telling you this because I believe you should know. Not because the widow wishes you to know. Do you understand?”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“I’m not feeling well today,” she continued, her tone shifting to something more formal, rehearsed.
“I’ll be retiring early. I trust you to remain in your room this evening, Miss Carter.
The widow has eyes everywhere, and I would hate for you to do something foolish that might make your situation worse. Or his.”
The emphasis on those last two words was deliberate.
She was giving me permission. No—she was giving me cover.
“I understand, Mrs. Browne. I hope you feel better soon.”
Something that might have been approval flickered across her face.
“Lock your door after I leave. If anyone asks, tell them I checked on you and you were settling in for the night. Early.” My former roommate, Betsy, had been moved to share a room with another servant, someone who wouldn’t fill her head with ridiculous notions.
While I missed her company and chatter, it was better that she keep clear of me and the trouble I’d brought to Rose Hall.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She moved to the door, then paused with her hand on the latch. “He’s a good man. That’s rare in this place. I’ve worked for the Widow Delacroix for more than fifteen years, and I’ve seen what happens to people like him. People who can’t stop being decent even when decency is dangerous.”
“What happens to them?”
“They either learn to become something else. Or they die being who they are.” She barely whispered it. “I don’t know which is worse.”
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
I stood there, shaking, Daniel’s face flashing through my mind. The boy I’d tried to help. The boy who’d died because I’d drawn attention, broken the rules, been foolish enough to think kindness mattered here.
And now Brodie had done the same thing.
Saved a child.
Been punished for it.
Because that’s who he was. Who he couldn’t stop being, even when it cost him everything.
The afternoon crawled by in agony. I paced my small room, listening to the sounds of the plantation through my window. Normal sounds. Life continued as if a good man hadn’t been whipped for saving a child’s life.
At one point, I heard Philippe’s laughter from the courtyard. Later, the widow’s voice drifted up from the drawing room, light and pleasant as she entertained guests for dinner. At least I wouldn’t be summoned to serve.
Business as usual.
When darkness finally fell, I waited. Counted the minutes. Listened to Mrs. Browne’s footsteps pass my door earlier than usual—her patrol cut short by her “illness.”
Then silence. The house settled into its nighttime rhythms.
I cracked open the door. The hallway was empty. Dim lamplight flickered from the main staircase, but this wing of the servants’ quarters was dark. I’d memorized the creaky floorboards during my time here, knew which ones to avoid.
Down the hall. Down the narrow back stairs. Through the kitchen, still smelling of the evening meal.
Outside, the air was thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and something else—smoke from the cooking fires, maybe, or the sugar processing house in the distance. The moon was nearly full, painting everything in silver and shadow.
The stable quarters were a separate building across the courtyard, smaller than the main house but built with the same limestone. This was where the lower servants slept—the ones who worked the fields, the stables, and the roughest labor.
Where they’d put Brodie after his reassignment.
A light glowed in one of the ground-floor windows.
I knocked softly on the door.
It opened immediately. The African woman from the washing lines stood there—the one who’d warned me about Daniel, who’d told me I couldn’t save them. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw me, but she didn’t look surprised. Just resigned.
“You shouldn’t be here, girl.”
“I know. Please. I just need to see him.”
She studied me for a long moment, then stepped aside. “Ten minutes. No more. If the overseer makes his rounds and finds you here, it won’t be just him who pays.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You might not like what you see.”
The room was small, cramped, with several pallets on the floor. Most were empty—the other men must still be in the main servants’ hall or the quarters closer to the fields. But on the farthest pallet, lit by a single candle, Brodie lay face-down.
His shirt had been removed. The skin of his back was a mass of cuts and bruises, the lash marks crisscrossing from shoulders to waist. Some still seeped blood. Others had already begun to swell and darken.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Sweet Jesus.”
“He’ll live.” The woman moved to a basin near the pallet, where cloths and a bowl of something that smelled sharp and herbal waited. “I’ve seen worse. Not much worse, but worse.”
I knelt beside the pallet. Brodie’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow but steady. Sweat sheened his skin despite the evening cool.
“Is he—”
“Fevered. But not badly. The cuts are clean, with no infection yet. If we keep them that way, he’ll heal.” She handed me a cloth soaked in the herbal mixture. “You wanted to see him. Now make yourself useful.”
My hands shook as I took the cloth.
“Just dab it gentle-like. Don’t press. The herbs will help with the pain and keep the wounds from going bad.”
I touched the cloth to the least damaged area of his back, and even that gentle pressure made him flinch.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes opened—unfocused at first, then sharpening when he recognized me.
“Maddie.” Each word came out strained. “What are ye doing here?”
“Mrs. Browne told me what happened.”
“Mrs. Browne?” Something that might have been amusement crossed his face. “Never thought she’d break ranks.”
“She said you saved a child.”
He coughed. “Aye. Wee thing, couldna have been more than four or five. Cat ran under the wagon, and she ran after it without looking.” He winced as I dabbed at another cut. “Wasna going to stand there and watch her die.”
“You knew they’d punish you.” I tucked my hair behind my ears as I rinsed out the cloth.
“Knew it was likely.”
“And you did it anyway.”
“What else was I supposed to do?”
The same question I’d asked myself about Daniel. The same impossible choice between what was right and what was safe.
“You could have looked away. Survived.”
“Aye. I could have.” His eyes met mine. “Could ye have? If ye’d seen her running toward those horses?”
No, I couldn’t have. Wouldn’t have. Same as I couldn’t walk past Daniel bleeding on the ground, even knowing the cost.
“This is my fault,” I said quietly. “If I hadn’t refused the widow. If I’d just—”
“Don’t.” His voice was sharp despite the pain. “Don’t take that on. I made my own choices. Same as ye made yours, Maddie.”
The woman, Abena, Mrs. Browne had called her, moved to the other side of the pallet. “He’s right. Blaming yourself doesn’t help anyone. Just makes two people carrying guilt instead of one.”
She began working on his back, her movements gentle but sure. I followed her lead, trying not to think about how much pain each touch must cause.
“The little girl,” I asked. “Is she all right?”
“Scraped up from where I grabbed her, but alive. Her mama came and got her, took the cat with them.” Brodie’s voice was getting weaker. “Worth it. Even for this.”
Worth it. As if being whipped for saving a child’s life was somehow acceptable. As if kindness should cost this much.
We worked in silence for a while, cleaning the wounds, applying the herbal mixture that smelled of something bitter and sharp. Abena had skills, and the confidence of someone who’d tended too many injuries like this.
“You’ve done this before,” I said quietly.
“More times than I can count. Twenty years on this plantation, I’ve seen what they do to people who forget their place.” She said it flatly. “Or who can’t forget who they used to be.”
“How do you bear it?”