24
Key West
March 1842
True to her word, Dorothy did accompany Tom a couple of weeks later. The day before their departure, I went over to the Farrell home with a list of ideas, suggesting names they might look up and places where they might go to search for Andrew. Dorothy was out, so instead I gave the list to Tom, who was in his study.
Dorothy had always respected the silence I’d imposed on her and never mentioned Andrew or our baby to her husband. But she’d had to tell Tom now to elicit his help in New Orleans.
Tom was usually a jovial, friendly man, and he and I had always enjoyed an excellent relationship. But when I entered his study, I immediately sensed something was wrong. “Morning, Emily.” He gave me a cool look, scowling. Then he closed the door to his study. He indicated a chair for me. “Dorothy told me. Emily, I just can’t believe you had a … black baby.”
I was nonplussed. “Yes, an adorable little girl. We named her Ebony.”
Tom was reacting with more alarm than I’d expected. “And a black lover …” He began to pace the room, running his hand nervously through his hair: “Emily, I can’t understand the purpose of all this business, getting Dorothy to go searching New Orleans for … some slave.”
“Andrew isn’t just ‘some slave,’ Tom!”
He held up his hand, not wanting to hear painful details. “All right … all right … let’s just assume we ?nd this … Andrew. What then?”
I smiled broadly. “Why then, I’ll go to New Orleans and bring them to Key West.”
“Emily, what are you thinking?” He was almost shouting. “What about our family? Gran?”
I stiffened.
Tom sat down then. He had decided to take a more lawyerly approach: “Emily, just think about it. If he is a slave—and it sounds like he does still belong to someone—it would be illegal to bring him here. Assuming he’s alive to begin with—and we don’t even know if he is—we should be returning him to his owners. You should know better. Bringing him to Key West … it would be like stealing someone’s property.”
“And what about my child?” I challenged. “What about Ebony? She has a white mother.”
He shook his head. His tone was gentle. “Emily, you know the rules. Your baby is a slave. She belongs to Andrew’s owner, too. I’m sorry … but that’s the way it is. It’s the law.”
Dorothy chose that moment to arrive home and entered the study. Seeing me in tears, she put her arms around my shoulders and chided Tom. “And what kind of mean things are you saying to my poor sugar?”
“I’m just trying to get Emily to face facts.”
“Well, you just stop that now, darlin’. I’ve told Emily I’d do my best to ?nd Andrew and Ebony if they’re alive. And I will, even if I have to search every slave shack in New Orleans!”
They exchanged meaningful looks, which silenced Tom. After hugging Dorothy and wishing her a good trip, I went home, feeling considerably de?ated—but no less determined.
They were gone for three weeks, during which time my moods ?uctuated from excitement to joy to misery as I thought of each possible report she might bring home. Most important to me was to know if they were alive. I would go from there.
I fretted. At work, I was distracted, sometimes miscalculating measurements or portion sizes. People were having to repeat things to me a couple of times before what they said registered. Even Gran, who often got sidetracked herself, noticed. “I declare, Emily, you’re getting more absentminded than some of my eighty-year-old friends!”
The Farrell children stayed with their nanny, but just as often they chose to spend their time with my children at Gran’s, so I had plenty to do at home. In my leisure moments, I created another daydream: Dorothy and Tom arriving with Andrew at the docks. In this scenario, the reverse of our last scene at Wreckers’ Cay, Andrew would be holding Ebony, the infant Ebony, in a blanket. Martha would take Ebony from him to cradle her. Then I would throw my arms around Andrew—bystanders be damned.
After perusing boat schedules, I made ready to leave quickly for New Orleans if Dorothy’s news was good. I had even thought up a story about an illness for Grandpère to tell Se?or Salas, so he would give me time off. In the meantime, I was on tenterhooks.
On the day their ship was due, I took the Farrell children down to the docks to greet Dorothy and Tom. I could barely contain my excitement as the gangplank was lowered.
My niece Maureen ?ew into her mother’s arms, followed by the younger two. Dorothy gave each of her children kisses and hugs, then looked over their heads at me. She shook her head sadly, and I felt myself quietly disintegrate. “We tried very hard, Emily,” she said, as the children ran ahead to the carriage. “Please believe me. Tom even hired an investigator. We checked out the orphanage at the convent; we enlisted the help of Eurydice and Marie-Francine, who made inquiries of slaves they knew; we checked the jail, and looked for bills of sale for slaves at the registry o?ce; we asked around at Congo Square. “And then ?nally”—and here she took my hand and looked sadly at me—“we heard through Eurydice … I’m so sorry, sugar … we heard that Ebony did not survive the trip to New Orleans.”
“Oh, Dorothy!”
She paused to let one disaster sink in before she gave me the second part of her bad news: “And Andrew … Andrew did manage to reach the port, but he was caught by the slave patrol soon afterward. He had no manumission papers, so they sold him somewhere, probably out of state, since there were no records in New Orleans. He could be anywhere—Mississippi, Alabama, back in Georgia with his original owner, or even Arkansas—really, anywhere.”
She put her arm around my shoulder and said gently, “I’m so sorry, sugar. I know you didn’t think Tom and I were on your side in this, but really we worked very hard to ?nd them both. Tom was wonderful. He used all his connections.”
I stumbled onto the bench in the waiting area by the dock to catch my breath. A part of me had ceased to exist at that moment, departing the core of my body almost visibly, like a phantom shadow.
Dorothy sat next to me and held me: “There now …” she said. “There now. I know, I know. The news could not be worse. I just wish I weren’t the one to have to tell you …”
A slave! Andrew? The wonderful man who had saved my life, and was the gentlest of lovers? The man who had sung as he worked and cared for my children as his own? Andrew, who had gloried in his freedom at Wreckers’ Cay? Yes, he knew the truth about his freedom—he had been much wiser and more realistic than I.
And I had suffered the loss of yet another one of my daughters. My beautiful baby. What had she been given in her short life? Just a few months with people who loved her. Then what? Starvation? Fever? Drowning? Only Andrew knew. And where was he? How could I even start to look for him in the large area she had described?
I don’t remember how I made it home to Gran’s. I went to my room feigning a grippe, and I spent the next couple of weeks a virtual recluse.
Though life was moving on for me, I frequently thought of Captain Lee and Al?e Dillon, who continued to languish in the naval hospital. I still suspected Pedro Salas was responsible, and though Lee’s nasty threats kept me from wasting much pity on him, I felt terrible about Al?e. On several occasions, I went to the hospital to see if I could visit him, but he was allowed no visitors. Poor Al?e. He had probably just tried to help Lee and been drawn into the melee.
One of the local ladies, Se?ora Ximenez, was a nurse at the hospital, and whenever I saw her, I would ask about their condition. “If they are friends of yours, you should pray for them,” she would say.
So I struggled with my remorse, but Se?or Salas harbored no con?icted feelings. He carried on as before, still visiting me in the cookhouse at inopportune times, still parading his string of women past me, and still staring at me when he did not think I was paying attention.
Perhaps it was Gran’s constant carping, or perhaps it was my hands growing rawer with each passing day, but gradually my heart began to harden, and I began to question my own motives. What am I doing here? I wondered. Is it really for the money? Or is it to get away from Gran? She was right about one thing: I was wasting my youth in a steamy cookhouse. I was working at a soul-destroying job I hated, and depriving my children of the time I should be devoting to them. It made no sense.
I needed money, but on a far grander scale than I was capable of earning it in this position. With more funds, I could send my children away to school when it was time. I could have a home away from my grandmother, and—though material things had become less important to me over the years—perhaps it could be a beautiful home, and I might have nice clothes and jewels.
Once, I thought I had married for love, but it was an illusion. When love truly found me—I squeezed my eyes, trying to push the memory of Andrew away—it brought me only heartache in the end. Now all I had was a post with no status. George Lee had called me a scullery maid. I’d dismissed his cruel jeer, but it had hurt, because it was close to the truth.
It was the most innocuous event that ?nally changed my thinking: I was scrubbing dishes in the cookhouse, for the maid was nowhere to be found that day, and one stubborn pot would not release its dried rice. I scrubbed harder, and realized the sweat on my brow had turned to tears. I stopped, I sat down at the worktable, and sobbed into a clean rag. This, I decided through clenched teeth, is going to change.
It was in this fresh frame of mind that I turned to Se?or Salas one day and remarked, “I understand you have a beautiful home, Se?or Salas.”
My comment startled him. I had until now kept our exchanges brief and impersonal. We no longer even referred to Captain Lee and Al?e. But on that day, I wore the emerald ear bobs he had given me at Christmas. I had also taken extra care with my hair and dabbed a little powder on my nose.
“Yes. Yes,” he agreed. “I’ve built a splendid house on Whitehead Street. It’s in a Spanish style, with beautiful tropical gardens. You must come and see it, se?ora.”
I responded warmly. “I would love to,” I said. “Perhaps my sister and I could drop by one day when you are not occupied with other, more important matters.”
“When?” he asked immediately. “Today? Tomorrow? Anytime you like!”
“Tomorrow. Perhaps we could join you in taking tea. Around three o’clock? I shall have to be back at four-thirty to begin supper for the workers.”
He was visibly excited. “Of course! Yes, yes, Se?ora Lowry. Tomorrow would be perfect. I don’t usually drink tea myself, but I will have my housekeeper, Juanita, prepare it for you. And some good Cuban coffee for me.”
“You know,” I said demurely, “I think we know each other well enough now for you to call me Emily.”
He smiled broadly, revealing his beautiful white teeth. “Emily,” he repeated. “Yes. Of course. And you must call me Pedro.”
It was almost too easy.
He sent his carriage for Dorothy and me the next day, and we went over to look at his home, which was indeed beautiful, although not built or decorated to my taste. A Cuban servant opened the massive wrought-iron gates, and the carriage clattered along the brick courtyard until it came to a halt before a porte cochère to the left of the house. We were then ushered up the steps and along the vast veranda to the elaborate front door.
Greeting us in the grand foyer was Juanita, a surly Cuban woman in her mid-forties. She was thin and reasonably attractive, with graying hair pinned up in a severe bun. Eyeing us suspiciously, she served tea and Cuban pastries with barely a word, despite my attempts to make conversation in Spanish.
Unlike the clapboard New England-style homes that surrounded it, Pedro Salas’s house was an enormous Spanish Colonial structure, covered in white stucco, with a tile roof and decorative grillwork. He had ?lled it with massive antiques and paintings. Lacy wrought-iron chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, heavy velvet drapery enhanced the many windows and kept the interior cool, and the ?oors were decorated with Oriental rugs he’d imported from Spain. A cool white Italian marble stairway, decorated with graceful gold leaf ?ligree, swept up grandly past an indoor fountain to the open second story, where it enclosed a gallery overlooking the foyer.
It was excessively lavish. Yet, even as I appraised his home’s extravagance, I was imagining myself as its chatelaine—though I’ll confess, in this dream I saw Andrew by my side, rather than Pedro, and my Ebony and little Hannah still alive and playing in the garden. Away from Gran’s scowls and disapproval, I could see Martha happily teaching them to skip rope on the patio to a tune she’d learned at school, and Timothy delighting them with booming sounds as he blew into a big conch shell. Since Dorothy’s terrible news, I was trying to focus more on my children and less on the unrealistic hope of my whole family united again. But for me, it was di?cult. My daydreams were still frequent—just different.
Salas took pride in guiding us through the rooms, pointing out each important item and explaining how he had come by it. Many of his furnishings and most of his artwork had been inherited. And like everyone else in town, he regularly attended auctions and had bought many artifacts from wrecked ships.
Beyond the courtyard was a luxuriant garden with an Italian fountain and ornate cages containing exotic South American parrots. Behind a cluster of thatch palms, a separate cottage housed the maids, and the coach house had living accommodations above it for his driver.
When we left, he kissed Dorothy’s hand ?rst and then mine, holding it longer than necessary as he helped me to mount the steps of the landau. I’d discreetly pulled my skirt up, showing as much of my leg as possible as I stepped into the carriage. My shameless coquetry was not lost on him: As he said good-bye, he invited me to dinner, and I agreed—so long, I added, as Dorothy could join us. After my disastrous experience with Captain Lee, I was quite happy to insist on Dorothy’s inclusion. And for her part, she was delighted at how things were progressing.
“This could turn out well for you,” she said excitedly on our way home. “He’s obviously very rich, and it’s clear that he adores you.”
“Yes, he seems to,” I said. “I don’t love him, of course.”
“No, of course not,” she agreed. “Not that it matters.” She thought for a moment and added, “Frankly, I think both Gran and I would have preferred Captain Lee—”
I cut her off. “I do not love Captain Lee, either,” I said coolly. “In fact, I don’t even like him.”
Dorothy was taken aback by this. We rode along in silence for a few minutes. Finally, I said, “I’ve decided that I shall marry Se?or Salas.”
“Oh, Emily. How wonderful! When did he ask you?”
I shook my head. “He hasn’t yet, but he will.”
And indeed, several weeks and dinners later, he invited me into his o?ce and proposed.
“Oh, I know that I am much older, and that you don’t love me yet,” he said, “but I will do everything I can to make you happy. And maybe,” he added with a smile, “just maybe, you will learn to love me … a little.” He held his thumb and index ?nger up hopefully to indicate the very small measure of love he expected.
I smiled and nodded. Being courted by yet another older man put me in mind of Peartree’s proposal, but I knew this would be quite different. This marriage would free me from menial work, not chain me to it.
“Yes, I would be honored to marry you, Pedro,” I said, adding, “and I have become very fond of you in the past few months.”
Excitedly, he drew out a dark green velvet box and produced an antique gold ring with an emerald large enough to weigh down my hand. The stone had to be about four karats, with baguette diamonds on either side. It beautifully matched the ear bobs he had given me at Christmas. “It was my abuela’s. She told me to place her ring only on the ?nger of a woman I truly adored.”
“Oh Pedro, it’s beautiful!” I exclaimed, admiring it on my ?nger. I marveled at myself—I had never lusted after ?ne jewelry. When did I transform into the sort of woman who exclaims excitedly over elaborate rings? I wondered.
“It is you who are truly beautiful,” he said. “I cannot wait to place the second ring on your ?nger.”
I smiled, but inside I was screaming questions at myself. What have I just agreed to do? What about Andrew? But—no. There can be no future with him if he can’t be found. And Ebony is dead.
Can I trust Pedro? I wondered. The beatings had shown me that he was a complex and unpredictable man. And I did not love him. But I realized how much I respected him nonetheless. Better to be married to a wealthy man, I told myself, a kind and loving man who can protect my family, than to remain alone.