19
Wreckers’ Cay
March 1840
During our study time the next day, Andrew asked me why Latin was important. My two eldest children were otherwise occupied. Martha’s new interest in painting meant that we had added “art” to our curriculum—not that I could teach it, but because I felt it was enriching for her, I gave her some school time to work on it. She was outside, sitting under a mango tree, trying to paint the tiny green fruit beginning to form on the tree. Timothy was sitting at the picnic table near the lagoon, engrossed in a book Dorothy had sent him.
“Latin?” I was caught off guard by his question. “I don’t know. It’s just always there—on buildings, inscriptions, in hymns and church books. And we use Roman numerals for clocks, chapters of books, and dates …”
“Do you speak Latin?”
“Heavens no; nobody really speaks it,” I said. “I do speak French and Spanish, which are based on Latin. And English has many Latin roots.”
“I’d like to learn Latin,” he said.
I laughed. “Well, I’m not the one to teach it to you,” I said. “I know only a few words.” I wrote two words on a small card. “Here,” I said.
He tried to sound out the words.
I corrected him, pronouncing the words carefully: “Carpe diem.”
“What does it mean?”
“Seize the day,” I said.
“Ah.” He smiled. “Embrace the moment?”
“Yes. You mustn’t waste opportunities in life.”
He sat back and looked at me. Then he reached out and covered my hand with his own. His hand was big and warm and brown, covered with calluses from hard work, and I loved how secure its touch made me feel.
“Well,” he said slowly, “perhaps tonight after the light is lit and the children are in bed …”
A shiver of excitement went through me. Obviously, Peartree’s visit the day before had affected him. I nodded.
“Just remember,” he said sternly. “We do nothing that would make you pregnant.”
We prepared as for a wedding night. I took a long, languorous bath, letting my hair down, applying scent, and then I put on a loose white nightgown that revealed much of my breasts. Andrew spent more time than usual in the shower, shaving and grooming.
He did not knock. When he drifted silently into the bedroom, I held his gaze in the lamplight as he slowly undressed. I could clearly see the desire in his eyes and in his aroused body. I pulled back the counterpane, and he climbed into my bed. Accustomed to Martin’s almost chaste trysts, I rolled up my nightgown halfway. But he wanted it off completely. He began to peel it away, with my cooperation. Then I was in his arms.
His body was curiously hairless and smooth, which excited me as I drank in the clean smell of his still-damp skin. Gently, I explored the smooth muscles of his neck and carefully ?ngered the jutelike ropiness below it—the web of ?rm ridges on his back, permanently embossed by cruel whips. Unbuffered by clothing, our naked skin melded together, and he began by kissing me slowly, on my lips and in the hollow of my neck, as he ?nally whispered all the things I’d been yearning to hear. He gave due attention to my breasts, arousing sensations I had never realized a man could bring about in my body; certainly Martin had never managed to. He continued kissing me down the concave curve of my belly, my legs, and even to my toes. Then he kissed his way back up, setting me a?re, and I parted my legs to allow his deep kiss free access.
“Are you sure, Emily?” he whispered. “We can’t go back after this.”
“I know,” I replied. “Yes, I know.”
For once, Martin was silent. In fact, I heard my husband’s voice no longer after that night, as if I had nothing more to say to him and his ghost—unable to convince me of my folly—had ?nally drawn a shade to preserve our privacy.
After that glorious ?rst night, Andrew moved in with me and became, as far as I was concerned, my new husband. As we had anticipated, it was not long before Timothy and Martha understood that the status quo had changed. And they were not happy about it.
“Mother, what are you thinking of?” Martha hissed one morning after she’d seen Andrew emerge from my room to go over to the tower. She usually addressed me as “Mother” only when she was unhappy with me. “When we gave Andrew to you, we didn’t know he would start sleeping in your bed.”
“I love Andrew,” I said simply.
She looked down the stairs, as if worried he might overhear. “Yes, well, we like him, too. But what about Father?”
“What about him?”
“What if he comes back? We don’t know if he’s dead or not.”
What indeed would I do if he literally resurfaced? But the prospect was so unlikely, I did not think that was the real issue. “If he weren’t coming back, would you be uncomfortable with the fact I’m sharing my bed with someone? Even if it wasn’t Andrew?” I asked.
She thought about it. “Yes. I don’t want you to have any more babies. I don’t want you to get sick again … and maybe die.”
I took her in my arms. “Martha, I love you so much. I’m touched that you care about me. But I must have a life, too.”
“So you’re not going to have a baby?”
“No, darling, of course not,” I said.
She was silent for a moment. “Mama, are we going to move back to Key West someday?”
Her question took me by surprise. My children had never raised it before.
“Why? Would you like to?”
“I think about it sometimes. I should like very much to meet Mr. Audubon, if he’s back, and perhaps ?nd an art teacher. And it would be nice to make friends with other girls. And visit with Aunt Dorothy and”—she smiled—“perhaps have a beau one day.”
I smiled and kissed her cheek. “I can understand that.”
My poor daughter, I thought, studying her carefully. I noted her budding breasts; she was now nearly ten years old. I’d been so absorbed in my own feelings that I had not stopped to think of her nascent ones.
Then she continued: “Timothy says if you have a black baby and we go back to Key West, nobody will even speak to us.”
My breath caught. From the mouth of babes, I thought.
“Timothy and I think you should marry someone like Captain Peartree, or Captain Lee.”
“You don’t think they’re a little … old?”
“Well, yes. But they are more like Father.”
“What about Andrew?” I asked.
Martha frowned. She looked at me incredulously. “Mother! He is a Negro slave. You could never marry him.”
Later on, I had a similar conversation with Timothy. But in the end, I let it be known to both of them that they would have to accept Andrew’s sharing my bed. The children said no more about it, and for the next few months, Andrew and I found joy in each other whatever way we could, keeping our promise to do nothing that might cause a pregnancy. We had to be careful, but that was clearly not a problem for Andrew. He was gentle, sensitive, aggressive, adoring—and endlessly creative.
August arrived, debilitating us all with its oppressive heat and stillness. Hannah had been gone seven months, and Martin had been missing well over a year. It had been almost that long, too, since Andrew entered our lives. My grandfather wrote to tell me that Grandmère had died, which ?lled me with great sadness. I was still receiving letters from Dorothy, entreating me to return to Key West. To my surprise, the news of Hannah’s death had precipitated long, friendly letters from Gran, who wrote to me now every month. And I occasionally received letters from a nun who had taught me at the convent. Her name was Mother Saint Angela, and she had been my favorite teacher.
There had been many changes, yet some things stayed the same. Captain Lee and Al?e Dillon still arrived on the duly appointed days. I kept their visits short, jollying them back onto their boat after they’d had their tea. Storms also worried us in August. Because it was the peak of the hurricane season, I cautioned Andrew that the lighthouse could be affected by sudden strong winds. He now redoubled his efforts to make sure the wicks were well trimmed and the lenses kept clean. Timothy was teaching Andrew how to sail the Pharos and our skiff, in case we had to evacuate.
I rose one morning, to see dark anvil-shaped clouds gathering on the horizon of an angry red sky. Pelicans were feeding close to shore, an indication that bad weather was coming. The day was hotter than usual, and deadly still—yet another ominous sign.
To my chagrin, in the early afternoon Bourbon barked to announce the arrival of Captain Peartree. Traveling from a westerly direction, he was alone and looking perturbed as he docked his sloop. The way the day was shaping up, I suspected he might fear getting caught in a storm on his return to Sand Key and need to stay the night on Wreckers’ Cay. As I expected, with many apologies for disturbing me, he said, “I wondered if I might take shelter here.”
“Do have some lunch with us,” I replied, with forced cordiality. “Then we can see which way the weather will go. I’m afraid I don’t have very luxurious guest quarters, but there is a small cot in the storage house.”
“I’m an old sailor, quite used to cramped conditions,” he said, smiling. “However, I insist you allow me to contribute some work. I shall light the lamps for you tonight.”
Since we could not have Andrew anywhere in sight while he was about, I agreed. Taking Martha aside, I told her to tell Andrew what was happening, and that he was not to light the lamps.
I busied myself with chores while Captain Peartree strolled around, acting like someone about to buy the property.
“This is such a splendid little island,” he said pleasantly as he entered the cookhouse, where I was preparing an early supper. “And it’s surprisingly cool here for August.”
“I actually ?nd it very warm and humid,” I replied irritably. I did not want to agree with him on anything. “There’s no breeze today.”
We were silent for a few minutes, until he spoke again. “Emily,” he said, “have you given any more thought to my proposal? Respecting your wishes, I’ve stayed away. But I have truly missed seeing you these past few months. I’ve thought about you every day.”
“I’m afraid I am still mourning my husband,” I replied. “I’m not yet ready to make such a commitment.”
“But your husband has been gone over a full year now,” he persisted. “You really should be thinking about a new life for yourself, my dear. You and I could be very happy together, and—”
I interrupted him, no longer able to contain myself. “Captain Peartree, when I’m ready to remarry, you will be the ?rst to know.”
He blinked and his mouth snapped shut.
The wind gradually began to pick up, and we had short, intermittent bouts of rain. After supper, Peartree rose with con?dence and announced that it was time for him to go up to the light. I gave him the keys to the tower and sent him on his way, grateful for a few moments of peace.
When I did not see the light shining twenty minutes later, I walked over to the lighthouse and called up to him. There was no answer, though I could see the glow of his lantern farther up the tower, and I rushed up the stairs. Not having worked at the light for so long, I was quickly out of breath, but I carried on until I was almost at the top. There I saw him, looking ashen, in a crumpled heap on the staircase; he was grasping his chest and breathing with di?culty.
Peartree gestured to his pocket; I took out a vial of pills and opened it. He placed one under his tongue, trying to regain his wind and his dignity. Suddenly, it struck me. “It is your daughter who tends the light at Sand Key, isn’t it?” I asked, my tone accusing him.
He nodded sheepishly.
We sat there on the steps, pu?ng, two frauds caught in an entanglement of falsehoods, laboring to catch our breath. Once assured that he was recovering, I brushed past him and lit the lamps, for the sun had just set and it was fast growing dark.
“Come down to the house, and I’ll give you some brandy,” I said afterward.
He cooperated like a helpless child. Outside, the wind and rain blew stronger as ?ashes of lightning burst over the water like garish ?reworks. As we slowly made our way back to the house, I could see that the wind was stealing his breath again; I called for Timothy to come and help. We managed to get the captain into the parlor, and I brought him brandy, a blanket, and some hot tea. Despite the heat, I lit a ?re to dry some of his wet clothing.
I sensed this kind of spell was something he had coped with before. He also seemed quite accustomed to having a young woman wait on him. My frustration ?nally overcame my patience. “You want to marry me so you can live here at Wreckers’ Cay, but you still planned to have me work the light. Is that correct?” I asked.
He looked surprised by my hostility. “Well, you’ve been doing it all this time,” he said amiably. “I thought you’d carry on as before. I want to marry you because I love you, my dear.”
“Of course,” I said. “And what would your contribution be to our blessed union?”
“Well, I could work some in the garden. A little weeding. And help with various lighter chores.”
I repressed the urge to laugh aloud. He had made me very angry. Not only had I been required to light the beacon along with my other chores, but I’d had to nurse a sick old man, and would be deprived of Andrew in my bed to offer me comfort on this stormy night.
Umbrella in hand, I escorted Peartree to the storage shed and left him with a candle, a chamber pot, a water basin, and some towels for washing. I was tempted to stop at the playhouse to see Andrew afterward, but I resisted, lest the captain’s eyes follow me back to the house through the window.
I arrived in my dark bedroom in ill humor, drenched and chilled from the rain. I stripped off all my clothes and began to towel myself dry.
“I’ve got your bed all nicely warmed up for you, darlin’.”
I whirled around. It was Andrew, lazily waiting for me in bed. He smiled in the soft light as he lit the oil lamp on my nightstand. I fairly dove in beside him and cuddled up to get warm. He ?ngered my wet curls, and slowly he began to make love to me in our usual way. But this time, I stopped him. “No,” I whispered. “Not like that. Please, just this once.”
He hesitated. “No. I shouldn’t.”
“Hush,” I whispered, tracing my ?nger over his lips. A shudder of excitement rushed through me, turning my insides to jelly. I took the little gris-gris bag from my bedside table and placed it under my pillow.
He rolled over, so that I was under him. “I’ll be really careful,” he whispered.
When my menses appeared that month, we were emboldened. Perhaps the amulet did work. We continued making love in our new, free way and by October we had virtually convinced ourselves that my previous di?culties had left me infertile, an assumption that was as precipitous as it was foolish. My next menses did not occur. Despite the fact that I had none of the nausea I usually felt in the early stages of carrying babies, by November I was convinced I was indeed pregnant.
Andrew was alarmed when I told him. “My God, Emily!” he exclaimed as he covered his face with his hands. “What have we done?” I shrugged. He looked at me in anguish. “I knew better. I should never have let you talk me into it.”
I tried to match his somber mood—after all, I did understand the gravity of the situation—but it was as though I’d lost my mind. Andrew’s love, and this new baby … they were intoxicating gifts. I felt joyful and heedless, and with the pregnancy now a fait accompli, I felt I had nothing more to worry about. After all, the worst had happened, and yet the sun still rose and set every day, just as before. We would manage.
Andrew’s despair over the pregnancy lasted a full three days. By the third day, I felt it had gone far enough. My pregnancy unleashed a new libertine spirit in me that I’d not known I was capable of. When Andrew went up to the lantern room of the tower, I removed my underdrawers and mounted the stairs. He was seated on the bench with some tools, and his eyes widened when he saw me.
“What’re you doing here, darlin’? Shouldn’t you be resting?”
I merely smiled. I lifted my clothing and sat on his lap, facing him. In a moment, I was straddling him in a ?urry of raised skirts and fumbling of trouser buttons.
“What’re you doing?” he cried out. But he made no move to stop me. He was smiling now. “My God, Emily. There’s no satisfying you. You’re like a drunken massa set loose in a slave compound!”
“Hush,” I said. “I’m seizing the day.”
Captain Peartree never returned to the island. We had a few minor storms that season, but otherwise we fared well. Life went on peacefully. The children were healthy. Captain Lee and Al?e continued their visits diligently—and on schedule, thankfully. My pregnancy was easy, with none of the other terrible symptoms I’d experienced last time.
Finally, by December, I felt it was time to tell Dorothy. I wrote my letter to her in French, and she replied, also in French, by the next courier:
Ma Chère Emilie,
Tell me your last letter was a joke. Tu plaisantes, n’est-ce pas? No, knowing you, it is probably true. I knew that lonely island would get the better of you eventually. Dearest, I am very worried! You had so much trouble last time. But even I couldn’t have suspected that leaving you alone with ton beau nègre could lead to this. What will you do? Perhaps we could ?nd a home for it in New Orleans. I can write to the nuns. Or to Eurydice. I’ll tell them it is the orphaned child of a servant.
In the meantime, stay well. I shall come to you when you think it might be your time. It sounds like it will be May or the beginning of June? You may count on my absolute discretion, even with Tom. I love you.
Your sister,
Dorothy
Christmas that year was our ?rst without Hannah. Whenever I thought of her face lighting up as she beheld previous Christmas trees, I felt the ache of losing her all over again. But in spite of that, the holiday was quietly joyful, for this year had been rich with blessings.
Embarrassed after my earlier reassurances that I would not get pregnant, I hadn’t as yet told Martha and Timothy that our family was about to expand. But I could not hide much from Martha. She had not seen my hygienic cloths on the line for a few months and approached me accusingly one day in January.
“Mother, are you going to have another baby?”
I was in the middle of preparing supper in the cookhouse and replied distractedly, without looking at her, “Well, yes. Yes, I suppose I am.”
When I turned, her eyes were ?lled with angry tears. “You promised!” she screamed. “You said you wouldn’t! Now we’ll never get off this island, because of you and Andrew and your nigger baby!”
I had never struck any of my children, but my hand slapped her full in the face before I could stop myself. It sent her reeling toward the door just as Andrew came in. Martha glared at him and sped past, out of the cookhouse.
“Whoa! I seem to have stumbled into a hornet’s nest,” he said, looking at my stricken face.
“God help me. I lost my temper,” I said, tears gathering in my own eyes.
“I know. I was listening at the door.”
“Tell me,” I said bitterly. “Say you told me so.”
“No, I won’t.” He stroked my hair. “She had to get it all out. I know Timothy feels that way, too. I’ll talk to them.”
I nodded as he wiped away my tears. That evening, I took Martha in my arms and kissed her cheek. “I’m so sorry, darlin’. I know how you and Timothy feel. I really do. And I’m so sorry I struck you. Please forgive me?”
She managed a smile as she cuddled up to me.
“Everything will be ?ne.” I reassured her with a hug as I ?ngered her silky curls. “We’ll ?gure out a way for you and Timothy to move off the island soon, I promise.”
“Yes, Mama, everything will be ?ne,” she repeated cryptically.
Dorothy did not have a chance to deliver me this time, either. My baby, a healthy little girl, arrived in the summer of 1841: She was a couple of weeks early, so again, Andrew was my midwife. Far from the horrendous delivery of my last pregnancy—almost my undoing—this baby came easily into the world.
Andrew washed her, then wrapped her in a blanket and gently put her to my breast. My family watched with awe as I fed her. The baby’s eyes were as blue as my own; as blue as my grandfather’s. And I suddenly realized that Marie-Francine, Eurydice’s little blue-eyed daughter, had to be Grandpère’s child. Our new baby’s skin was light and rosy, but I knew that it would darken over the next few weeks, as had the color of slave babies I’d seen when I was a child.
Andrew’s face was illuminated. No complicated feelings seemed to be on his mind; he was totally smitten by this tiny bundle of pink prettiness. He extended his large brown hand, and her little ?st seized his index ?nger. “Isn’t she perfect?” was all he could say. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
“I’d like to call her Ebony,” I said. “Ebony Hannah.”
Martha and Timothy approached their new sister with hesitation, peering down at her in silence. But they loved her immediately. Over the next weeks, they observed, fascinated, as her skin transformed into a rich tan color. Martha was charmed, she never needed to be asked to change her sister or sing her to sleep. She and Timothy seemed to have forgotten all their anger. Never had a child been more loved.