Chapter 9 #2
I turn my head and look south, where rows of leggy, untidy indigo grow.
“Is Angel’s Rest still a working plantation?
” I ask lightly, with no judgment in my tone.
As the daughter of an abolitionist, these sorts of questions are rife with inherent danger, but I aim to learn the measure of the man next to me .
. . and whether Ruby and Noah are as free as they seem to be, or enslaved.
“No. Lucrezia was just as appalled by slavery as I. After her husband died, she released her slaves and gave them their freedom papers. Indigo sales were declining at that point, and she had more than enough money to live the rest of her days in comfort. Some of them stayed on in the marsh and took up with the free Gullah. Most took advantage of their freedom and went north.”
“Are Ruby and Noah . . .”
“No,” Alex says. “They’re from another plantation. Up the Wando. They escaped and came to the marsh last year.”
“I see.”
“You’ve seen Ruby.” Alex clears his throat. “I reckon you can gather why her father is so protective.”
“Yes.” With her youthful beauty, Ruby would be considered a “fancy girl.” A house slave who would likely be subjected to her master’s unwanted attentions. “It’s good that they have you looking out for them.”
He laughs. “They don’t need me. They know these marshes better than I do. They bring me fish once a week. I pay them. It’s enough to form an accord. They’ve grown to trust me. I don’t take that lightly.”
A beat of silence passes between us, one in which I consider telling Alex about Papa and his work.
But it would be too revealing. Even though this man has shown me nothing but kindness, I must remember why I fled Charleston—to escape my past. I don’t yet know Alex well enough to trust him.
I’m still a fugitive—one with a healthy bounty on my head.
The less he knows about me, the better. Still, my time of isolation in the marsh showed me I crave human companionship.
A purpose, apart from merely surviving. Perhaps, if I can fully become someone else, there might be a future here for me, at Angel’s Rest, if I prove myself useful.
Even in my current state of infirmity, I might find ways to be helpful to those who have shown me kindness.
“Do you think . . .” I say, considering. “Do you think Ruby has been educated? That she knows how to read?”
“It’s highly illegal for a Negro to learn to read, Miss Jones.”
“I know that. But she’s very clever. And she’s already a fugitive. Knowing how to read will hardly endanger her more. Do you think she would like to learn how to read?”
Alex turns to me, his lips curling into a wide smile. “I think she would. Very much.”
With Noah’s reluctant permission, Ruby’s reading lessons begin the following week.
Alex builds a fire in the hearth and arranges a comfortable set of chairs at the long table in the library.
I greet Ruby there. She’s nervous, her arms clenched tightly at her waist as her eyes take in the shelves of books and come to rest on the writing slate and chalk pencil Alex procured for us.
“Please, Ruby. Sit,” I say motioning to one of the high-backed chairs. “Don’t be nervous.”
We start with the alphabet. Ruby is a fast learner.
By midafternoon, she’s forming letters just as gamely and easily as I.
We go through the alphabet twice more, and by the third time, Ruby has memorized it.
We pause to enjoy the tea and lemon cakes Alex brings us (I’ve learned he does all the cookery himself—quite rare for a man) and then resume our lessons.
I can tell Ruby is invigorated. As the afternoon advances and we begin sounding out simple words, her face glows with pride and her posture relaxes.
She even laughs once, a sweet sound that makes me beam.
She’s beginning to trust me. I realize how much of a gift her trust is.
It’s unlikely I will ever have children, but teaching Ruby gives me a motherly sense of pride, even though what we are doing is highly illegal.
But at this point, what does it matter? Having faced my own execution makes me bold and reckless in ways I never would have been before.
When Noah comes to fetch Ruby that evening, she nearly skips to meet him. Although Noah is wary of me, he nods at me once from the library’s threshold, his hat in his hands. When they depart, I can hear Ruby’s excited chatter filtering from the hall. “I learned how to spell ‘cat’ today, Daddy!”
I go to the shelves and begin choosing books for our next lessons. I find a New England primer from the last century, proof that children once lived in this house, and a well-loved volume containing Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow. Alex comes in as I’m perusing his collection.
“You must be tired,” he says. “You’ve been at this since morning.”
I turn to him, smiling. “On the contrary. I’ve not felt so well in a long time.”
“It seems you’ve found your calling.” His eyes linger on mine, and I feel my cheeks redden. “I’ve never seen Ruby so giddy. Even Noah smiled to see her joy. A rarity.”
“He is very stoic, isn’t he?”
“He has reason for it. He’s told me enough about his life to understand why.”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Neither of us can, Miss Jones. Supper will be ready soon. We can eat in here, if you’d like. Together.”
“I . . . I would like that.” My blush deepens.
I clutch the books in my hands. I’m becoming besotted with him.
And is it any wonder? He’s kind, handsome, and generous.
My bitterness over William’s betrayal has faded, with each day I’ve spent in this house.
My attraction to Alex makes my courtship with William seem childish and shallow by comparison.
Though I enjoyed our walks through the garden and about town, William never inspired desire in me.
Only the familiar comforts of friendship.
But now . . . something new is stirring within me.
And perhaps the chance is there, slight though it may be, that Alex might feel the same bloom of longing as I.
At the very least, he enjoys my company.
“I should go wash up before supper,” I say, placing the books on the table, next to Ruby’s slate.
“I brought a fresh ewer of water to your room. And another dress. I hemmed it this morning. It should fit.” He grasps the back of his neck, as if nervous, gazing at me through his long lashes. “I believe the color will enhance the color of your eyes.”
“I’m eager to see it,” I say, pondering his ability to sew.
Like his skills in the kitchen, it’s another rarity among men, but he stitched up my leg remarkably well.
Papa often had modistes and seamstresses for customers, who came in to choose fabrics with the ladies who hired them, but there was also the occasional tailor.
Perhaps a man knowing how to sew wasn’t so far-fetched.
Alex excuses himself to see to our supper. On my way to my room, I imagine I see Rebecca’s form in front of the window, lit by the setting sun, her eyes hard and accusing. I brush aside the chill her presence engenders. Perhaps my senses are only deceiving me.