Epilogue
Thirty years later
I broke both of our hearts that day. I couldn’t destroy Kate’s dreams, nor demand she stay with me. But I could no longer sacrifice my purpose, or betray my conscience, for the sake of her happiness. I am my father’s daughter. I always have been.
After I left Kate at the dock, I hid until her ship departed, then booked a ticket for New Orleans.
On the steamer that took me south along the coast, I stole from every finely dressed man or woman I could.
Then I took another riverboat and went north to Baton Rouge, where I stole some more.
I stole from the rich all along the Mississippi, until I got to Saint Louis, where I found a wealthy widow, just like Kate had, and asked for a job at her boardinghouse.
She died two years later. And that’s when my real work began.
I don’t know how many souls I hid in the basement of that boardinghouse over the years.
How many I helped ferry across the river to Illinois.
To freedom. It doesn’t matter. I saw the work that needed to be done, and I did it without fanfare, just like every other agent on the Underground Railroad.
I hid the enslaved belowstairs, and on the upper two stories, I boarded only women.
Those in desperate situations. Unwed mothers.
Ill-used wives. Women like me and Kate. As Mary Jones, the former governess from Charleston, I taught those who wished to learn: reading, writing, and basic arithmetic.
Gave them the skills they’d need to survive.
I took a few lovers over the years. The body has its needs, after all.
All of them looked like Kate. Rangy and confident, with dark hair and blue eyes.
Though I shared my body, I never again trusted another with my heart.
As for my mother, I sent her letters by way of Aunt Tillie, with no return address.
Sometimes I sent her money, when I could afford to.
Forgiveness is a complicated thing. There will always be a part of me that will remain angry.
Bitter. But despite all her shortcomings, I know my mother loved me, in her broken and flawed way.
I learned of her death at the end of 1860, mere months before Fort Sumter fell.
I had no regrets after her passing. Only peace.
During the long, bloody years that followed, as war ravaged the country and tested my fortitude, I considered how much easier my life might have been if I’d boarded that ship bound for London.
I often thought of Kate and followed her successes in the papers.
Her roles at Covent Garden: Cherubino. Orlando.
Count Orlafsky. But even though I longed for easier times, the war showed me how resilient I was.
How brave I could be. I thought of our family motto often: Tout Jour Prest. Always ready.
When the war ended and slavery was abolished, I left the boardinghouse to one of the young women in my employ and booked a ticket to London to see Kate’s final performance as Orpheus. It was time to begin again, once more.
I’d love to tell you that Kate and I reunited, that we fell into one another again like waves fall upon the shore.
We didn’t. I only watched her on that stage—beautiful, majestic as ever, her mane of dark hair now silver.
I worshipped her from the front row, her every word a ravishment.
Her eyes met mine, once, and held them for a moment, a look of incredulity washing over her features.
After the curtain fell, I waited outside the theater, hope in my heart.
It was snowing, fluffy, fat flakes the size of dimes falling onto my shoulders.
As I was about to give up and walk to my hotel, I saw her exit the rear doors, but she wasn’t alone.
She had a young woman on her arm. Pretty, petite, with a heart-shaped face and rapturous eyes that gazed up at my first love—my only love—with complete adoration.
Hidden as I was inside my cloak, they strode past me with nary a glance.
I heard Kate’s laughter as they walked away.
That young woman might have been me, in another life, had I not made my fateful choice that summer day long ago.
But some things are best left to memory.
Kate’s love was of a kind I dared not keep.
The next day, I boarded a train bound for Scotland.
It was easy enough to find Papa’s family.
To this day, there’s still a pub on the high street with our name, owned for generations by my Carmichael kin.
When I arrived, I went inside and greeted the barkeep—and learned he was my second cousin twice removed.
Before long, the whole of the Lanarkshire Carmichaels and Douglases welcomed me into their fold, with eager questions about America, our terrible war between the states, and Papa.
I regaled them with stories, embellishing things along the way, as copper-haired children played at my feet and doddering aunties served me cups of mead and cider.
Finally, I’d found home. Finally, I’d found somewhere I belonged.
With my savings, I bought a stone cottage tucked into a green hillside, then a cow, and a dog that reminded me very much of Walter. And I began to write down this tale, so that you might know that my two deaths weren’t the end. They were only the beginning . . . of everything.