Chapter 7 #2
“I got to know the city and meet so many people. It helped me ask after Silas . . .” Accidentally saying my brother’s name out loud felt like another piece of shattered glass, this time a part of my heart.
A truth I hadn’t uttered out loud to anyone but Eulalie in months.
The only truth I could share with him about my life.
William’s eyes filled with concern. “Who is Silas . . . if you don’t mind me asking?”
“My brother. He was sold here. I came to the city to find him.” Everything I’d been doing and had learned about Silas’s whereabouts up until now poured out of me.
I didn’t realize how much I’d needed to comb over the details with someone, to allow someone else to hear the story of our family.
Telling this part of the truth cracked open a dam.
Tears poured down my cheeks, and I couldn’t wipe them away fast enough.
William closed the gap between us, plucking a fresh handkerchief from his pocket.
He put a hand on mine, the sensation flooding me with a warmth I’d never felt before, a warmth Jacques’s hands had never conjured.
As he wiped away my tears, I gazed up at him, really seeing him for the first time: his dark-brown eyes, almost black, filled with curiosity and care; his soft black hair, curled like sheep’s wool; the trim beard framing his jaw; his perfect full mouth.
For the first time, I felt the energy I’d seen between Eulalie and Eugène. Desire. My own.
“I can ask around about him if you want,” he said. “Nouvelle-Orléans seems like a big city from the outside, but it’s a small town for the colored folk. We know each other. We watch out for one another. Someone’s got to have seen him or heard about him. I’ll help you.”
As the new year came and went, I found myself outside in the garden every day, writing and waiting to see William.
He tended the plants or made his way to the stables to care for Beau, Jacques’s brown bay, or Winny and her foal.
I’d look forward to greeting him with a nod, then stealing glances between sentences: always aware of him, where he was, and what he was doing, and unable to forget the night we’d rescued Milly together and hoping to get a few minutes with him alone.
He trundled by with a wheelbarrow, and I couldn’t help but stop him. It had been weeks since we’d talked.
“William,” I called out, careful to ensure that no one in the house heard me.
He paused before me. “Yes, madame?”
I balked at his formality. “Nel—I mean, please call me Noelle.” The panic of almost saying my real name flooded me.
A small smile played on his lips while sweat gleamed against his brow.
I opened and closed my mouth, trying to drum up something to say to him. “How are Mr. Boudreaux’s horses?”
“Would you like to go riding?”
I wanted to reply that I could care less about the beasts. “No, not at all. I—”
“What are you working on?” He gestured to the paper.
I flushed as I shuffled the papers together, wanting to lie to him but being unable to as he stared down at me. I wondered if he could read and write. “I was writing about the sunset.”
“May I hear?” he asked finally.
Nerves ran through me at the thought of him hearing my work, but I cleared my throat as I plucked a page off the top. Jacques had never taken an interest in my words. I hadn’t had anyone but Milly to read to.
He closed his eyes as I read:
“One of nature’s sweetest songs comes in the evening, as the golden day fades into the depths of night, when a man lays down his labors and prepares to feast and slumber.
“That is when the symphony begins, the cascade of sound that gives Earth her music.
“Her song.
“The cricket’s steady chirp, the bullfrog’s deep burble, and the cicadas’ crescendo serenade a day at its end, their earthly lullaby singing the sun to sleep.”
“That’s a mighty fine piece of writing,” he said.
“Thank you.” William’s encouragement felt like much-needed sunlight. “Do you read?”
“A fair bit. Enough to order what I need for nails and things. Nothing like this, though,” he said, pointing to the pages.
“I’ve never heard anything like it before.
” He collected his wheelbarrow. “I hope you wouldn’t mind reading your work with me again in the future.
” He tipped his hat and headed toward the stables.
I floated inside, delighted to have found an audience.
So that was how it started: my readings with William.
I would spend my mornings writing and then find him as he tended the garden or the horses. I watched for William’s reactions as I read, hoping my words would lead to a smile, his dimple flashing, head nodding encouragement as he worked with precision.
The more time I spent with him, the more I grew to admire his nature. His gentle care showed in how he handled his horses, brushing their coats to a high shine, reshoeing them, and keeping their stalls near-perfect.
“It’s good practice until I have my own space.
I’ll have a full blacksmith’s shop with at least three apprentices, and we would have the biggest forge for miles.
I’d have a shop in the front where we sold the nails, pieces, and supplies.
The cities are growing. If we had one place folks could get all their supplies for building, I think it’d be a success. ”
I’d watch how his eyes illuminated as he described his dream, a roaring fire like the one in his forge, fed by passion and vision. The same way the hearth inside me burned with the desire to write for eternity, to see all that the world had to offer, and to beat Death at his own game.
“With you at the helm, of course, it would be,” I assured him.
William at work was beauty incarnate. The forge burned, the temperature hotter than hell, as he pumped the bellows, the coals burning yellow.
Black iron bars stuck out of the coals, their centers glowing red.
William gripped a rod and swung it out of the fire and onto his anvil, white hot like a piece of a broken-off star.
It sparked with every strike, cascades of light floating onto the floor.
Once it was finally shaped to his liking, he’d smash the rod on the sharp instrument sticking out of the anvil, knocking off a glowing two-inch chunk.
He plucked it with tongs and forced it into a forge, banging this way and that until he’d landed the final blow, sending the object on the floor to cool.
In just thirty seconds, he’d expended all that effort to craft a single, perfect nail.
His mastery floored me. His ability to create something meaningful and useful from primitive materials like metal and fire felt like that of the ancient god Hephaestus.
I’d watch the sweat drip down his muscled arms and the way he’d bite his bottom lip in concentration.
The strength of his hands shaping iron to his will.
My desire to know what his hands felt like, and if they carried the heat of the fire he tended to all day, only grew.
The days with William turned to playing with fire. As I tried to deny it, my heart grew fonder, and so did my dreams about where he could fit in my life. Then one day, William surprised me, inviting me into the stables.
“Close your eyes,” he said as I walked in.
“What are you up to?” I teased.
“You will see.” He took my gloved hand, the warmth of him still able to find its way through the fabric.
“On the count of three, you can open them.” He stood behind me, the feeling of his tall frame making me want to sink back into his arms. He counted softly in French, his deep voice sending a shiver across my skin.
I opened my eyes to find a tray full of little figurines standing at attention. William stepped back, shifting from foot to foot as I absorbed them one by one.
“All your creativity inspired me. I thought I’d make something myself.”
Fashioned out of tin, the figurines captured the essence of life—several were horses, while the others were human, forged from metal scraps.
One stood out, larger than the rest, buffed smooth and polished. She was the only one with color, wearing a blue-and-white-striped gown and a red rose at her waist.
“Is this me?” I held the dress up to the light, recognizing it from my first day in the house.
William ducked his head. “It’s just something I do to pass the time.”
“They’re wonderful.”
“A few weeks ago, I set to work on it. Your words greatly inspired me.” He paused and spoke slowly: “‘One of nature’s sweetest songs comes in the evening, as the golden day fades into the depths of night, when a man lays down his labors and prepares to feast and slumber.’”
My heart leaped to my throat. He’d remembered my words. Remembered them and committed them to heart. Remembered them and channeled them into his own work.
I took his hand. He startled. “It’s okay,” I whispered. “It’s okay.”
We stood in silence, listening to each other’s heartbeats.