21
Key West
October 1841
The hurricane, it turned out, was of moderate strength, with no deaths reported. But it did cause damage to roofs, shutters, verandas, and windows. Several trees had toppled and crashed onto homes, letting in water that caused ?ooding. All this took weeks to repair and clean up. Wreckers’ Cay had certainly suffered worse; as much as I still hated to admit it, Andrew had probably been right in getting us all to leave.
I yearned to go back to my paradise to see how it had fared. But what I really wanted was to have everything exactly as it had been before, as though none of this had happened. Tom told me that he’d had very preliminary reports from shipowner clients and sea captains, and their reports were not good. He and Dorothy urged me to remain until more speci?c facts came in.
Though surrounded by family, I felt empty. My breasts ached for want of suckling, and I was sick with worry over Ebony. How was Andrew feeding her? The void left by their absence was almost more than I could bear. And I was still angry with Martha and Timothy.
I had been stoic after Martin’s disappearance, and bolstered everyone else when Hannah was killed, but this time I wanted nothing more than to just sit in my room and weep. I knew that to thus indulge myself would be unfair to Dorothy and, worse, it would arouse Gran’s suspicions. So I had to act like nothing was amiss.
We decided that I should move into Gran’s house, which was far larger, and she owned four slaves. Back to her old self, she welcomed us in her cool, brittle way, and lost no time reminding me that my children had been brought up as heathens. “We must enroll them in Sunday school at once,” she said urgently, as though their perdition were imminent. “I shall take them myself to St. Paul’s tomorrow and introduce them to the rector’s wife. We must also place them in regular school. They’ve already missed over a month into the year.”
My nerves had been wrung raw, and I merely nodded. As long as the children were safe, I was in no position to stand up to her.
Then she turned her attention to me. “For heaven’s sake, Emily, get yourself some decent clothes, and a corset. You’re spilling out everywhere! And do something with your hair. I’ve never seen anything so wild. You’ll never ?nd another husband, looking the way you are.”
“I am more interested in another post of some sort.”
“Don’t be silly.” She laughed. “If you can ?nd a husband, you won’t need a post!”
The evening after we’d moved into Gran’s, Martha passed a letter under my bedroom door. Recognizing Andrew’s handwriting on the envelope, I ripped it open.
6 October, 1841
My darling Emily,
If you are reading this, my prayers have been answered and you and the children have survived. It breaks my heart and I am most sorry about Ebony. I know how much pain this must be causing you, and if you hate me, I do not blame you at all. But some day, my darling, you may realize it was the only way, and you will forgive me.
I have lost so many people that I’ve loved, I couldn’t bear to lose Ebony, too. She will be happier if I raise her where I can try to keep her free. I could never see her abused as I have been.
Perhaps we will meet again someday, Emily. As you may have guessed, I am not going to Key West. I will be setting my course for New Orleans. I wish you nothing but love, my darling. And I sign this with tears in my eyes.
Andrew
PS. Emily, do not be angry at Martha and Timothy. They understood what you were too blinded by love to accept.
I reread his letter many times.
My ?rst impulse was to book passage on the next ship heading to New Orleans. But had they survived the trip? How could he have fed her? Would they have been able to go directly there without interrupting their journey elsewhere? Which way had the storm blown? If it had headed toward the Gulf states, they could not have survived. But if it had blown up the east coast of Florida, their chances might have been better.
Even if they had managed to reach New Orleans, I knew Andrew would be di?cult to ?nd. As a slave without manumission documents, he would be forced to go underground. In any case, I had no money—and I certainly could not leave Martha and Timothy with Gran so soon after I’d arrived. How could I possibly explain myself?
The letter made me rage, then weep. For I could not hate Andrew. In my heart, I knew he had made the right decision.
I had brought virtually no clothing, and I could not afford to acquire any. Dorothy lent me a corset, pantalets, and a few day dresses to wear. When I found some fabric at O’Hara’s warehouse, I sewed up clothes for the children and a frock for myself. My return to civilized society was demanding things of me that I hated. I chafed at having to wear undergarments, proper laced boots, gloves, and a bonnet again.
After a couple of weeks, I started looking for a position, and the ?rst place I headed to was the Key West lighthouse at Whitehead’s Point. As I arrived, Barbara Mabrity, the lighthouse keeper, was still cleaning up the grounds after the storm. She was awaiting some tradesmen from the U.S. naval station to repair damage to her roof.
Miss Barbara was delighted to receive me. “Why, Emily Lowry! I’d heard you were back,” she exclaimed when she saw me. She propped her rake against a large sabal palm and hugged me warmly.
I had met the Mabritys not long after Martin and I ?rst arrived in Key West, and while they were not close friends, we had enjoyed their company. Yellow fever had taken Michael Mabrity the previous year, and Miss Barbara had assumed his posting. As widowed female lighthouse keepers, we felt an immediate bonding, sharing as we did a most unusual sisterhood.
“So you’ve had to leave Wreckers’ Cay, Miss Emily,” she said, leading me into her cozy cookhouse. “Rebecca Flaherty just marveled at how well you managed to tend the light and keep the grounds out there. You were an inspiration to the rest of us wickies.”
As I looked at her lean, muscular body, I had the good grace to blush at her praise. Here was a woman who, unlike me, was worthy of the title lighthouse keeper, for she really did perform at the tower. She was older than I by more than twenty years, but she still managed to mount the stairs to tend the lamp at least twice every day and was raising ?ve children. Over tea and fresh pecan tarts, I told her tearfully about the horrendous Indian raid on Wreckers’, and we chatted about the common problems we shared as keepers and mothers. We also gossiped about the inner workings of the U.S. Customs Department, the Lighthouse Services, and Superintendent Pendleton.
Finally, I broached the reason for my visit. “Miss Barbara, I wondered if you might need help here at the lighthouse. I need a position. I am”—I played awkwardly with my teacup—“virtually destitute. My family—we have lost everything.”
She was sympathetic. “I could certainly use the help, and I’d enjoy your company. But I could not afford to pay you from my salary. I earn only ?ve hundred dollars a year. You, of all people, know how underpaid we wickies are.”
Clearly, the department had been giving me isolation pay. She looked thoughtful. “You know, there’s a gentleman you should talk to. His name is Pedro Salas. He’s a cousin of Juan Salas, you know—that fellow who used to own the whole island before he sold it to John Simonton?
I nodded.
“Well, anyhow, Pedro, this cousin, is a Spaniard who spent a long time in Havana. He has a cigar factory over there and he’s recently started one up in Key West, on Fitzpatrick Street. I understand he’s bought a few rooming houses where he puts up some of his workers, leastwise till he can build cottages for them.” She paused. “I don’t suppose you know any Spanish, do you?”
“Yes, I do. In New Orleans, I spoke both French and Spanish. And I studied it in school.”
Her eyes lit up. “Why then, you’d be perfect to run one of the rooming houses for Se?or Salas. Can you cook for a bunch of men? Nothing fancy—just good, plain food?”
“Yes, I could do that.” I found myself interested. Cooking for cigar workers would be preferable to sitting about my grandmother’s house, subjected to her carping and advice. It would place me back in the community, keep me busy, take my mind off worrying about whether Andrew and Ebony had made the trip safely—and more important, it would bring in some money, which I could use toward locating them.
Thus began a very bizarre phase of my life.
The next day, I had two visitors. First, an elegant landau drawn by two ?ne chestnut geldings arrived at my grandmother’s early in the morning. The Cuban driver alighted and delivered a message on behalf of Se?or Pedro Carlos Salas. Barbara Mabrity had recommended me, and he requested I join him at the boardinghouse he owned on Caroline Street at ten o’clock the following morning.
The other visitor was the ?rst mate from the schooner Thomas Jefferson. He told me Captain William Loxley—one of the sea captains Martin and I had known before we left the settlement—urgently needed to speak to me, as he had something very important to discuss. The mate left Loxley’s address and said he would be home until he headed out to sea early the next morning.
Curious, I hurried over to the captain’s immediately. The Loxleys lived in a charming two-story whitewashed clapboard house with gingerbread trim and a pretty garden, surrounded by a white picket fence. His wife, Mathilda, graciously received me. “Dear Miss Emily, how lovely to see you again! Welcome back to Key West. You’re lucky to catch William in. He’s not often home.” She ushered me into his study. “All that business out at Wreckers’ Cay … Would you like a cup of tea or coffee, dear?”
“Coffee, please, if it’s not too much trouble,” I said as I entered the room. “What business at Wreckers’ Cay?”
“With the light down, there’s plenty of work to do, as my husband will tell you.”
William Loxley’s study looked much like that of any busy sea captain, with maps, charts, and papers strewn about. Walls and drapes were infused with the smell of pipe tobacco so common in a male domain. The room was well appointed, with nautical paintings, ships’ models, an old ship’s wheel, a barometer, and a sextant as decorations on the walls. The furnishings were mostly mahogany, with comfortable seating covered in a ?oral chintz that re?ected Mathilda’s in?uence.
The captain rose from his large Chippendale-style desk when I entered. A tall, trim man in his late forties, he was an imposing ?gure, with a full head of dark hair streaked with silver. His eyes were dark and piercing when he looked at me from under his graying, bushy eyebrows, and a tight smile appeared brie?y under his mustache.
“Miss Emily! So good to see you after all these years,” he said in his Bostonian accent. He shook my hand gravely. “You’ve earned quite a reputation for yourself at Wreckers’.”
I returned his smile but said nothing. Like someone long incarcerated, I was feeling awkward in these more formal situations—especially when my reputation was referenced.
He invited me to sit in a large wing chair near his desk. A maid brought in little cakes and coffee, which she served in Sèvres china cups off a gleaming silver tray. I imagined they were booty from wrecked ships, like all the beautiful furnishings around me.
Captain Loxley cleared his throat. “As you may or may not know, Wreckers’ Cay sustained considerable damage during the hurricane.”
“No, Captain. I suspected as much, but I’ve received no reports as to how the island fared after my hurried departure.”
“Well, much of the lighthouse tower was destroyed, and your home has lost its roof. There was extensive ?ooding, as the surge washed over the island. The house needs to be completely rebuilt. And most of the outbuildings were blown away. I just came from there yesterday.”
I fought back tears, thinking about my daughters’ graves on the island, and our animals, our furniture and worldly goods, now blown out to sea. It was becoming clear that I would have to remain in Key West for a long time.
He sighed. “This is quite a disaster for ships in the straits.”
“It is indeed a busy channel,” I murmured. “At least three thousand ships a year pass through it now. A lighthouse at that juncture in the straits is absolutely necessary.”
“Yes. Quite so. Wreckers’ Cay had one of the few lighthouses in all of Florida that was intelligently placed by the administration. Most of them aren’t where they should be at all. That one, especially since it was well tended, was desperately needed. There’ve been two wrecks at the reef already, and we can expect many more before the light is working again.”
I shook my head. “My husband put up all those outbuildings. And he planted the wonderful fruit trees,” I said softly.
“Yes, I understand he made many improvements to the island.”
I nodded as my mind began to wander. Since my return, I had created a recurrent daydream to subvert my pain: I was back living at Wreckers’ Cay with Martha and Timothy. Up in the glass lantern room to light the candelabra just before dusk, I looked out and saw Andrew and Ebony gliding up to our dock in the skiff. Ebony, a toddler in my dream, was giggling and trying to wrest the oar from his hand so she could control the boat. Andrew—my handsome Andrew—?ashed one of his beautiful smiles as he kissed her and easily lifted her from the boat onto the dock.
Suddenly, I realized Captain Loxley had said something, and I sat up. Unable to grasp what it was, I said simply, “I loved it there, Captain Loxley, and I left Wreckers’—and my post—with great reluctance. It will be di?cult for me and my children to begin a new life in Key West.” As there seemed to be nothing else left to say, I put down my coffee cup and rose from my chair. “Thank you for giving me this account. I do appreciate it.”
“But that’s not all,” he said quietly, his hand motioning me to sit back down as he poured me a second cup of coffee. “As I just mentioned, there is something else I must tell you.”
I looked at him curiously, noting that his manner had changed. His face now bore a look of sympathetic concern.
“My ?rst mate found a battered wooden coffee crate that drifted ashore from the reef on the southern side of the island. It had been weighted down, probably by a rock, but the storm savaged the area with such ferocity that it broke loose from its location. It was washed up on the beach by the high winds.”
I sat down, intrigued. “What was in the crate?”
“A body. Quite decomposed. I suspect it had been there for some time.”
I gasped. “Do you know whose body?” Yet, even as I asked the question, I knew the answer.
“Well, we don’t rightly know. It was someone who met a bad end, from the looks of things. There is a large crack in the thighbone, and what looks like a bullet hole at the back of the skull.” He reached over to a shelf and produced a box. “The remains are still on my boat and will be sent to the sheriff’s o?ce today, but here are some items that we found in the crate with them. We reckoned it was a man, judging from what he was wearing.”
I stared inside the box. The clothing had rotted away to ragged shreds and the wooden buttons had largely deteriorated. But I immediately recognized the monogrammed silver belt buckle and pocket watch Martin had inherited from his father. I caught my breath. “Oh, God,” I said, unable to keep my voice from quivering. “I think … these belonged to my husband.”
He nodded. “Yes, that’s what we suspected.”
“I can’t believe this.” I shook my head miserably. “I have wondered for the past two long years what happened to him. All this time, I thought he might even have deserted us, or been injured. Or that his mind had left him and he was wandering somewhere on a distant cay … or perhaps eaten by sharks. Killed by Indians … pirates.” I realized I was rambling.
“I’m sorry, Miss Emily. I have good memories of Martin. We often worked at wrecks together. He was a ?ne man.”
I nodded. Martin had been a decent, hardworking man. Perhaps he had not always been the husband who ful?lled my heart’s desire, but he loved me very much, and was a good father to our children. For that, I still felt great affection for him—and now I could ?nally let myself feel true sadness at his passing.
I looked up at Loxley. The crate had been weighted down by a large rock. Clearly, this had been no accident. My husband had been killed. But by whom? And why?
“There will have to be an investigation. This was obviously a murder.”
I nodded numbly, repeating through tears, “Murder. But who could have done such a thing? To me? And to my children?”
“Well, it could have been pirates, as you suggested, or, yes, possibly Indians. Though I think they would have taken his valuables.” He paused, then added wryly, “I think it’s quite safe to say it wasn’t a shark.”
My tears were ?owing freely now. I said, “I loved Martin dearly and needed him so much—especially living out there on that remote island.”
“Perhaps we’ll learn more after the investigation. I’m sure the sheriff will be in touch with you soon. I just hope we get to the bottom of this tragedy. Nobody is safe out there with murdering brigands roaming the seas. As you may know, we’ve had other men disappear in the past year or so. They’re still investigating those cases, too.”
“But what would they have to gain by killing Martin in his little skiff? He was simply ?shing. He had no money with him. They didn’t take his few valuables—not even his boat.”
“It doesn’t make a lot of sense,” he agreed.
Dabbing my eyes and tidying my nose with a handkerchief, I stood up to leave. “Captain, when may I have Martin’s remains? My family and I will want to give him a proper burial.”
“Of course. I’ll tell Sheriff Patterson to have them taken to the funeral parlor just as soon as they are done with their investigation.”
I hurried back to Gran’s and rushed up to my room, feeling numb. How I wished Andrew were there to comfort me, as he had been during my previous tragic moments. I yearned to sink into his arms, to hear him whisper comforting words, to have him left my chin and dry my eyes. His absence now drove home how empty life was going to be without him.
The next morning, Dorothy appeared at Gran’s door at eight o’clock with a new corset, pantalets, several frocks, and bonnets for me to try on before my interview with Se?or Salas.
Unfortunately, she also brought the morning’s Key West Enquirer. The bold headline read MARTIN LOWRY FOUND! INVESTIGATION OF SUSPICIOUS DEATH UNDER WAY. I was aghast. I hadn’t yet summoned the courage to talk to Gran and the children about my visit to Captain Loxley’s. How could I possibly go to a meeting involving a position today? Dorothy had already heard the news, which had spread like wild?re in the settlement. She’d been very fond of Martin and tearfully took my hand in hers. “Oh, sugar, I’m so terribly sorry! You know how much we all loved Martin. Of course, after all this time, we didn’t think he’d still be alive. But none of us thought he had met with a violent end.”
Together, we woke the children. Martha was irritated at being awakened, while Timothy simply looked at me sleepily. When I told them the news, trying to speak honestly but gently, they both snapped wide-awake. Martha wept bitterly, and my heart welled at the sight of her sad little face. All my anger over her part in Andrew’s deception melted away in that instant. I folded her into my arms. Timothy’s eyes had blinked to alertness and, though I saw his lip quiver, he kept calm and put his arm around my shoulder, helping me comfort his sister. Grieving as I was, I questioned my own sanity in choosing this day to apply for a position.
An hour later, Dorothy pronounced me ready for my foray into the workplace. She had chosen the out?t, for I was incapable of focusing on any kind of decision. To my surprise, she’d selected a rather daring shiny blue taffeta dress, more suited to a social than an interview. Cut low at the bosom, it was ?tted around the waist, and made me look a bit like a tart. On my head she placed a pert little hat that matched the fabric, adorned with a ?uttering blue plume.
My sister then laced me tightly into a corset in a way that squeezed the breath from me and accentuated my breasts. She did my hair up, holding my curls in place with tortoiseshell combs adorned with pearls. Finally, she applied powder to my face, charcoal on my eyebrows, and bright red rouge to my lips and cheeks.
“Are you sure this is appropriate?”
“Hush, sugar. You want the post, don’t you? I don’t know Se?or Salas personally, but he has quite a reputation. This will impress him.”
“Is Se?or Salas not married?”
“Apparently, he’s been married twice. No children. Both his wives died rather young.”
Martha and Timothy had watched my image transform from wild island woman to ?amboyant courtesan with confused fascination. “You look nice, Mama,” said Martha uncertainly, watching me through eyes that were still red with grief. Timothy said nothing, but there was a trace of disapproval in his appraisal.
We heard the thumping of Gran’s cane on the stairs, earlier than was her custom. Her personal servant, Dinah, usually brought her breakfast, which she ate in bed.
“So, I see everyone is already down here,” she observed. Then, eyeing me, she asked suspiciously, “And where are you going all dressed up so early?”
“I’m going to inquire about a position as cook,” I said, bracing myself for her reaction.
“Cook?” shrieked Gran. “A cook? First a lighthouse keeper, and now you want to be a cook? Is there no end to what you will do to embarrass this family?”
With my sister’s cheerful encouragement, I brushed past Gran and headed for the door. “Leave Gran to me,” Dorothy whispered, her arm around my shoulder. Then she said aloud, “Good luck, sugar!”
Se?or Salas’s landau arrived to take me to the interview, then juddered over the rutted streets as it carried me from Gran’s genteel neighborhood toward the seaport and warehouse district. As we passed the grog shops frequented by grubby seaman and wreckers, I was reminded of my early days in Key West with Martin. Even at that early hour, a few sailors were already staggering around under the in?uence of grog and ale.
The driver pulled up in front of the boardinghouse on Caroline Street and helped me to alight. It was yet another weathered house badly in need of whitewash. Located close to the pond, it was almost within sight of the busy harbor. The man led me through a foul-smelling corridor to the room Se?or Salas kept as his o?ce on the property.
I knocked tentatively; a male voice called out “?Adelante!”
Opening the door, I found myself in a cluttered o?ce. A man in shirtsleeves was seated at a battered old pine desk, his feet up, reading the front page of the Key West Enquirer. Se?or Salas was a man in his mid-?fties, with a face that might at one time have been very handsome but was now following the inevitable course of gravity. He still had his hair, although it showed signs of thinning. His face was deeply tanned and featured a grand waxed black mustache tilted up at the ends in the Spanish style, which did not match his graying goatee. He greeted me lazily from his chair, without bothering to rise. Salas was staring at me with the kind of bold, lascivious appraisal of men in attendance at slave markets in New Orleans assessing the value of black women stripped to the waist on the auction block.
I remained standing. He had not invited me to sit, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay. “Se?or Salas? I am Emily Lowry.”
He smiled, ?ashing beautiful white teeth. “Yes, yes. Pedro Salas,” he said, extending his hand as his mischievous brown eyes settled boldly on my cleavage. He gestured for me to sit, then, leaning back in his chair, continued to assess me audaciously. “?Tu hablas espa?ol, Chica?” he asked.
I bristled and my eyes narrowed. He was addressing me in the familiar tu instead of the polite form of usted. Among wellbred people in New Orleans, the tu form of address was reserved for relatives and close friends, animals, and very small children. It was also used for slaves and prostitutes. This lack of respect on his part, accentuated by the diminutive word chica,was surely calculated to show his disdain for me, and I would not stand for that.
“I would appreciate your addressing me as usted and calling me Se?ora Lowry,” I shot back in Spanish.
He raised an eyebrow. “?Usted?” he asked. “Well, excuse me. I guess I just feel I know you so well, after reading about you in the paper this morning, that I thought I could use the tu.”
Disregarding my protest, he had continued on in the familiar form.
I stood. “Good day, Se?or Salas,” I shouted angrily in English, and, turning on my heel, I hurried out the door.
He was after me like a shot. “Wait,” he called out, this time using the respectful form. “Wait, se?ora. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Come back.”
But his words fell on my departing back as I began walking back to Gran’s. Soon his carriage, obviously on Se?or Salas’s orders, pulled up beside me. Since my boots were pinching, I got in, and the driver headed in the direction of my grandmother’s house. I wept silently all the way home.
Gran was seated in the front parlor when I arrived. She, too, was reading the paper as she sat sipping her second cup of coffee. She looked up, surprised, when I rushed through the door. “Well, that was quick,” she said. Seeing that I was upset, she beckoned me. “Come here, child. Come here and talk to me.” Her voice sounded kind for a change, and I could see a measure of affection in her eyes. I sat next to her on the Louis XVI settee and put my face to her shoulder. She said nothing, just put her arm around me and let me cry.
“Did he do anything to you?” she asked ?nally.
I shook my head. “No. He was just insulting.”
“I see.” Her eyes appraised my out?t with disapproval. “You know, I thought Dorothy was wrong to rig you out the way she did, especially now that everyone knows Martin has passed away. He just ?gured you were a merry widow. You should have worn one of my frocks, not hers. I have a black one that I last wore to your grandfather’s funeral; it would have been much more appropriate for your meeting with that Salas man. The bodice has a high neckline, and it has long, plain sleeves. “I wouldn’t have done up your hair like that, either. And all that makeup she put on you! She made you look like a whore. No wonder he was so disrespectful. I had it out with Dorothy afterward. She and I don’t agree on things any more than you and I ever did.”
Gran was just getting started. “In any case, Emily, you know I don’t approve of your applying for this post—a woman of your breeding! It is very déclassé. And it’s totally unnecessary. I have enough money to help you ?nancially. And you’re welcome to stay with me as long as you need to—or until you ?nd a husband …”
In her ignorance of their existence, she could never guess to what lengths I would go for money to reunite my family. She smiled as though the matter were closed, and I smiled back through my tears—which she took for aquiescence.
“Now go upstairs and take off all that frippery and face powder and those ridiculous shoes. We’ll have a cup of coffee and chat about this business in the paper.”
Sheriff Patterson did eventually come and speak to me of Martin’s death, promising to do all he could to solve the murder. He also mentioned that the discovery of Martin’s body caused much consternation among the relatives of those other men who had disappeared. Until Martin was found, they’d all accepted that their loved ones had been involved in some kind of accident. Now they wondered if their remains would soon wash up as my husband’s had. Was it possible their men also met a sinister end?
The next morning, Se?or Salas’s carriage arrived with a small parcel for me. The driver stood outside after he delivered it, indicating he’d been instructed to await my reply. Curious, I went inside to open it and I saw that it contained a weighty gold chain. With it was a note written in a strong masculine hand in Spanish, using the formal, polite usted address throughout:
My dear Se?ora Lowry,
I am writing to beg your forgiveness for my rudeness yesterday. Please accept this small gift as a gesture. I was so captivated by your charms, I’m afraid I forgot the true purpose of your visit. Could we start over again? Tomorrow at the same time? My driver will come by for you at ten o’clock.
Yours very sincerely, Pedro Carlos Salas
I rewrapped the chain and replied:
Se?or Salas. I am returning the gift, for I cannot accept it. If you still need a cook at the boardinghouse, I might be interested in the position. I will be at your o?ce tomorrow at the appointed time so we can discuss the terms.
Yours truly, Emily Lowry
It was a chastened Se?or Salas, wearing his jacket, who opened the door of his o?ce to me with a respectful bow the next day. Grandly, he reached for my hand and lightly brushed his lips over it. As he took in my out?t, his face registered disappointment. I had taken my cue from Gran and, wearing her plain black mourning dress, now looked like a dowdy matron. I wore no cosmetics, and I’d pulled my hair back in a tight bun. I’m sure I had added about ten years to my actual age.
He immediately invited me to sit down, offered me coffee, and acted very businesslike. A man with a ?ne education, he spoke in the pure Castilian Spanish I had learned at the convent.
I was seeing him standing for the ?rst time. He was my height, rather heavyset, doubtless the result of a good life of rich food and good wine. His gaze still fell occasionally on my wellcovered bosom, but on this occasion he was courteous and discreet. Then he switched to English, which he spoke correctly and with only a slight Spanish accent.
“Last year, I started up the ?rst cigar factory here in Key West,” he began. “I bring in workers and tobacco from my plantation in Cuba. The humid Key West climate is just like Cuba’s and it keeps the leaves nice and moist. We hand-roll the cigars here. Then we send them all over, mostly to New York, where many of them are shipped somewhere else. They’re the best in the whole world. I have no competition yet, so the business is doing very well.” He sat back after this explanation, a broad smile on his face, his ?ngers enmeshed over his chest.
“Where is your factory?” I asked.
“On Greene Street, at the corner of Fitzpatrick. That’s where my o?ce is, if you ever need to talk to me. This is just a little space I use to administer this rooming house.”
He went on to explain the responsibilities of the position. Salas’s plan was to map out a little village within Key West just for his cigar makers, erecting little shacks for them to live in. “I’ll call it Salasville,” he said, ?ashing another self-satis?ed smile.
In the meantime, the workers were housed around Key West, and he needed a cook to serve them breakfast—just Cuban bread and strong coffee with jam. They would need to be at the factory by seven o’clock, and would eat a small meal at midday on the job, so I would pack their lunches, too. Then there was dinner, served in the evening.
“Nothing fancy, se?ora. Usually some paella, picadillo, ropa vieja, or some ?sh …” He paused. “I have about ?fty workers in all. About sixteen of them are housed here. Some of them are freed blacks. You might not like having to serve Negroes, but they are among my best workers, and—”
“I have no problem serving Negroes,” I replied sti?y.
“Good,” he said. “Fine, then it’s settled. Come, I’ll show you around the house.”
As I expected, the house was ?lthy. It had the sour stench of dirty, rumpled sheets, sweat, urine, and tobacco. The four spacious bedrooms were furnished with sagging cots. Work conditions, I suspected, would be appalling.
“How much does the position pay?” I asked boldly.
“How much do you want?” he countered.
I was not expecting that question. “I think … thirty dollars a week,” I replied. It was an outrageous amount—$1,560 a year, $610 more than I had been earning at Wreckers’.
“That’s ?ne,” he said, immediately. He smiled broadly. “In fact, I’ll give you … thirty-?ve dollars a week. Come, I’ll show you the cookhouse.”
The ?gure danced in my head. Thirty-?ve dollars a week! I was glad I had refused Gran’s offer the day before to support me and my children beyond our temporary arrangement. With this kind of income, I could start repaying the debt Martin and I had incurred with her years before; I could also save toward the children’s education. And, if I could earn some time off, I might be able to afford a trip to New Orleans to search for Andrew and Ebony. This possibility made me eager to start.
We shook hands to seal the bargain. As I was on my way out, Se?or Salas stayed my exit with his hand on my shoulder. “Se?ora,” he said softly. “A woman should never reject the gift of a gold chain from a gentleman.”
“I did not feel it was appropriate,” I replied.
He took the chain from his pocket, dangling it in front of me. The faint light through the dingy window caught its glittering links. Among these decrepit surroundings, it sparkled like a chest spilling with valuable treasure.
“Such a chain is like currency. A lady may remove links whenever she requires money. Let me see how it looks on you,” he said. Leading me to the large dirty mirror in the foyer, he carefully placed the chain around my neck like a clerk in a shop, taking great care not to touch any part of me untowardly. Against the black lace trim of Gran’s frock, it glowed like sunlight, making the dreary out?t look chic and expensive in the mirror’s grimy re?ection.
I smiled in spite of my reluctance.
“Please,” he said. “Accept it. It’s a token of my gratitude for your taking the post.”
“Do you reward all future employees with such gifts, Se?or Salas?” I inquired. In reply, he simply smiled and bowed.
When Gran saw me return with the chain around my neck, she looked at me in disapproval. “Humph,” she grunted. “Amazing what a little trinket will do to change a woman’s mind.”
I did not wish to dignify her remark, so I continued walking silently and headed to my room, a secret smile on my face.