32
Key West
December 1846
A couple of weeks before Christmas, Dorothy and Tom decided to take a trip to Havana on a private boat with some friends for a few days.
“Tom is using the trip to meet with some shipowner clients over there hit by the hurricane. And I just have to get away from Key West after all we’ve been through,” said Dorothy. Then her eyes kindled with glee: “It will give me a chance to freshen up my wardrobe, and to buy Christmas gifts. If you want anything over there, sugar, just make me a list.”
During their parents’ trips, the Farrell children now preferred to stay with me rather than remaining in their own home with Dorothy’s nanny. With my own children away, I missed the lively presence of young people in my nest and welcomed their company. Maureen was now thirteen years old, Alexander twelve, and Mary Elizabeth nine.
On the second day, the weather turned chilly and breezy. Noting that Maureen had brought no warm clothing, I volunteered to go to Dorothy’s and pack a few things. With a brisk northerly wind, Alexander wanted his kite, and I offered to fetch that, too.
I was admitted by the housemaid, who told me to take whatever I needed, then left for the slave quarters. The Farrell house was deadly quiet. I set about completing my errand, startled at every rattle of the windowpanes and time’s creaky settling of ?oors and walls: the eerie sounds of emptiness in someone else’s home.
I hurriedly completed my chore and headed for the front door. As I did, I passed Dorothy’s desk in the hallway. The paddle wheeler Isabelle had just docked the day before with its twice-monthly delivery of the townsfolk’s mail via Charleston. As she usually did, the Farrells’ housekeeper, Delilah, had gone down to the boat to collect it, placing the mail in a neat stack on the top of the desk. But with it being close to Christmas, there had been a lot of it, and the pile of letters and cards had collapsed. A few of them had tumbled to the ?oor, and I reached down to pick them up.
Putting the children’s things on a chair, I divided the mail into two piles to ?x the problem, but by cutting the stack like a deck of cards, one letter buried in the pile surfaced to the top. It was postmarked New Orleans and was addressed to Dorothy. There was no return address, but there was something very familiar about the handwriting.
I stared at it for a full minute, examining the envelope. Suddenly, I felt something brush against my ankles, and I had to cover my mouth to mu?e a scream. It was Myrtle, the family’s loudly purring cat, who had chosen that moment to display her affection. “Did you scatter the mail, you naughty cat?” I asked her, pushing her aside with my foot. “Shoo!”
Although her visitation had been unnerving, it had not deterred me. I reexamined the envelope, cheeks ?ushed and short of breath. I recognized that handwriting … It was Andrew’s!
Was he living in New Orleans? I was about to rip it open immediately, justifying my indiscretion by telling myself that Dorothy would most certainly have shared whatever the letter contained if she had been home. Wouldn’t she? It had to be about locating me. Had Andrew run away? Earned his freedom? I had to know.
I could barely contain my excitement. My heart was racing as I tried to ?ip down the front panel of the desk to ?nd Dorothy’s letter opener, and discovered it was locked.
Only my single-minded obsession with Andrew could have overridden the qualms I might have felt about invading my sister’s privacy. And a nagging question began to form in my head: Had he ever written to her before?
Remembering that Tom kept a set of keys on a hook near his desk, I ran into his study. When I found the correct key, the front panel ?ipped down, and my search ended. There was the opener, and next to it a large envelope propped against the pigeonholes. It had a single name written on it: Andrew.
My hands shaking, I threw both the new letter and the big envelope into my reticule, quickly relocked the desk, and then replaced the keys. Picking up the children’s things, I headed for the front door, arriving just in time for the children’s nanny to pad into the hall from the front parlor.
“Did y’all ?nd what you was lookin’ for, Miz Emily?”
“Yes, Lizzie,” I replied. “Yes, I have everything.”
Stepping over Myrtle, who tried to trip me on my way out, I quickly left for home. I could not remember ever having been so excited.
* * *
Feigning a headache, I took to my room after instructing Bess to give the children their supper. Only then did I open my reticule and spill the contents of the envelope onto the bed.
And thus did I begin to read an epistolary chronicle of the past ?ve or so years. Dorothy, in her organized fashion, had tied the letters together in order of date, so it was easy for me to follow their sequence. Some were from Andrew, a few from Mother Saint Angela at the convent, from Eurydice’s daughter Marie-Francine, and from someone I did not know named Gladys Rathbone. To my further shock, a couple of recent ones were addressed not to Dorothy but to me!
They were all from New Orleans, except the ?rst one, an undated note from Andrew.
Dear Miss Dorothy,
I got the letter you sent me through Martha. Please don’t worry. I will remember what we talked about when you were here and what you wrote in your recent letter.
We are all hoping for a quiet hurricane season. I’m glad we both agree about the wisdom of me taking Ebony with me if Wreckers’ is hit with a bad storm.
I’ll be ready if and when the time comes. I understand your feelings perfectly. The children and I will make sure it all works out.
Thank you for the names you gave me in New Orleans. They may come in handy.
Sincerely, your friend, Andrew
There had been no date on that one, but it had to have been included with a letter from Martha to Dorothy while we were still at Wreckers’ Cay.
The next one was also from Andrew. It was longer, and described the terrible voyage to New Orleans with Ebony.
Dear Miss Dorothy,
I’m sorry I could not write to you before this.
Leaving Emily, Martha, and Timothy was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I loved them all so much. I hope that one day Emily can ?nd it in her heart to forgive me. The trip from Wreckers’ was a nightmare, especially with worrying about Ebony. The seas were rough, though I stayed as close to shore as possible.
The biggest problem I had was feeding her and giving her water. She got sick a couple of times, and I thought I’d lost her. We stopped in an Indian village, where they welcomed us for a couple of weeks. The Indians were very kind. One of the women had just lost a baby, and she was happy to feed Ebony. They had a gifted medicine man there, and he gave her something made from tree bark, which lowered her fever. Later, we moved on to another village, where there were many runaway slaves. A woman there was able to feed her, and even wanted to keep her.
As you suggested, when we got to New Orleans, I went to see your former nanny, Eurydice. Her daughter Marie-Francine knew a woman who could care for the baby. Then, I went to the convent to see that nun you told me about. She was kind and helpful, and they gave me a job. A couple of months later, Ebony was old enough for them to keep in their orphanage, so now I can get to see her often.
Your friend, Andrew
My eyes widened in amazement as I reread the last paragraph. Ebony had survived the trip? Was she still alive?
I could not scan the letters fast enough. The nun in question was Mother Saint Angela, who had taught Dorothy and me at the Ursuline convent. She had written:
Dearest Dorothy,
I received your letter asking me to help Andrew Tyler, your sister’s former slave, and his child. This I have willingly done in Christ’s name. Your check was not necessary, but it can go toward the keep of his daughter. We have employed Andrew as our handyman, and he works diligently and contributes to her keep. While he is not a Catholic, he is able to assist Père Beaubien, our chaplain, at the altar. He knows Latin prayers and verses of the Mass. Mother Saint Cecilia adores his voice, especially when he sings “Ave Maria” and “Panis Angelicus.”
Yours in Christ, Mother Saint Angela
Ebony was alive! There were sporadic letters with positive progress reports from both Andrew and Mother Saint Angela for a couple of years. But then things took a turn. The slave patrol had been cracking down and Andrew had been arrested for lack of manumission papers. The nun wrote an urgent plea, asking Dorothy to ?nd Ebony’s and Andrew’s documents and send them. Otherwise, Andrew would be sold to pay for his keep in jail. Ebony, though a small child, was also o?cially a slave. Since such papers did not exist, Dorothy had done nothing about this. There were further letters from Mother Saint Angela. And then nothing. Finally, there was one from Andrew.
Miss Dorothy,
I got the letter you sent to Marie-Francine and Eurydice for me. Yes, I am now back in servitude. Thank you for getting your family’s friends to buy me. At least I’ve been able to remain in New Orleans, where Ebony is. They have been kind enough so far. I work as their gardener and serve at table. But I am still a slave, and will probably be one the rest of my life. It is terrible being separated from Ebony. I desperately miss being back at Wreckers’ with Emily and the children. I think of her all the time.
Your friend, Andrew
So Andrew’s owners lived in New Orleans? The next one from Andrew was addressed to me, in care of Dorothy, and had been opened. It was dated around the time I had married Pedro. Evidently, Dorothy had told him I had met a wonderful man and was madly in love. In his letter, he wished me nothing but happiness. He assured me he had told Ebony all about me and what a wonderful mother I had been to her. And he was happy to hear that I now understood his motives for leaving Wreckers’ with our baby.
Dorothy’s secret envelope was a virtual Pandora’s box for me, and as I sat there reading, I had felt myself tense up—in apprehension, love, joy, and, ?nally, rage.
I dropped his letter to me into my lap. Oh, Dorothy, I thought, seething. How could you? How could you?
There followed a couple of letters from Mother Saint Angela. Money had not been important to her in the beginning, but she hinted that the mother superior now felt inclined to be rid of Ebony. She was not old enough to do much work, and there was the matter of her keep. Andrew had been helping before, but he was no longer earning money. Dorothy did not appear to have answered these.
The next letter was to Dorothy from a Gladys Rathbone. Apparently, she was a girlhood friend, though I did not remember her. She seemed to have been one of her regular correspondents in New Orleans. The ?rst part of her letter was of little interest. Then:
About the child you spoke of to me in your letter, I did go to the convent and asked them if they wanted to rid themselves of her. I gave them a donation of twenty dollars, and took her home. You hadn’t told me her age; she’s not even quite six, and a bit useless. It’s not even legal to buy children so young. But she might be of some help to Antoinette in the kitchen. We’ve named her Penelope.
Yours, Gladys
A regretful letter from Mother Saint Angela followed. As Dorothy had not answered, the nun assumed my sister had lost interest. Yes, Gladys Rathbone—they knew her as Gladys Matthews—said she would take her. The nun hoped she would be well treated there. The family lived in a lovely home in the Garden District. Mr. Rathbone was a bank president.
By this time, I was frantically making notes.
There were two more letters to Dorothy from Andrew, including the one that arrived the day before.
In a letter dated a month ago, he told her he had seen Ebony carrying very heavy baskets at the market, and he reported that she had bruises on her face. It was a desperate plea, begging Dorothy to try to buy Ebony from the Rathbones. This one was still sealed. Clearly, Dorothy had indeed lost interest. She had not even bothered to open it!
The most recent, which Dorothy wasn’t aware had arrived, was more urgent, and as I read it, I realized I was bathed in my tears. Andrew had managed to speak to Ebony at the market and she’d told him Mrs. Rathbone had been beating her. Another one to me from Andrew begged me to help. In it, he admitted that he had made many mistakes. He had tried to keep our little girl free and safe, but he had failed. This letter was also unopened.
I stood, ?ung open my closet doors, pulled out my suitcase, and began to pack.
When Dorothy arrived the next morning, she threw her arms around me and began to tell me about their trip. “Havana was hit much worse than we were by the storm! It was hard to ?nd anything in the stores. But I did manage to get you something nice,” she bubbled. She handed me a beaded evening bag.
“I have something for you, too,” I said. I handed her the envelope.
Dorothy paled. “You … you invaded my home? Went into my locked desk?”
“You were hiding this from me all these years. So many lies! Dorothy! How …” I was so frustrated, I was losing my breath.
Dorothy sat down, visibly shaken. “Well, I thought I had to. You were so blinded, sugar … I was just trying to help. Andrew understood. I wanted what was best for you.”
I stood over her, resisting the urge to grab a handful of her curls and shake her. “How could you presume to know what was best for me? Listen to yourself. You’re still lying. You were doing what you thought was best for you!”
She was in tears. “What would Gran have thought if you’d had your way and brought them here?”
“Don’t bring Gran into this. You were just thinking of yourself.” I picked up the envelope and shook it in her face. “Thanks to your meddling, Andrew and Ebony are slaves.”
Tom moved over to Dorothy and stood behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders.
I exploded with anger. “I read all the letters, Dorothy! You told me my baby was dead. And to think—I believed you. All those years wasted! Poor little Ebony, abused—and you didn’t lift a ?nger to help her.”
“I didn’t know Gladys would be so hard on her … She was always a nice enough person.”
“To you, maybe. But obviously not to her help. Did you ever try to ?nd out? Did you even drop by when you were in New Orleans?”
“No,” she said softly. “I didn’t.” Her hands were resting in her lap, and she began twisting and curling her ?ngers around a handkerchief.
I’d been pacing the room and brought myself up to face her. “You even stopped opening your own mail!”
“Well, I … Sugar, I had done all I could.”
“But it didn’t stop you from opening my letters from Andrew!”
Dorothy blushed and hung her head. Tom tried to get involved at this point, and I turned on him, my hands on my hips. “As for you … my ‘attorney’! What happened to all that honesty you pledged to me? I should have known better than to believe you. You’d lied to me before.”
Tom turned his head and stared out the window to where their children were playing outside.
Finally, our shouting subsided and an exhausted calm descended on us. I sank into a chair. Dorothy sni?ed, but I said nothing. A plan was taking shape in my mind.
Dorothy rose and took my hand. “I can’t bear to have you angry at me, Emily. Is there anything I can do to make up for what I’ve done? Anything at all?”
I was quiet for a few moments. “Yes,” I replied calmly. “Yes, there is.”
By the time I boarded the Santa Trinidad a couple of days later, I had lists of names and addresses, my checkbook, access to my New Orleans bank account, which contained my share of Grandpère’s legacy, and two precious forged documents.
When the ship arrived at the port of New Orleans, I took a carriage directly to the home of Eurydice, who offered me lodging. I poured out my heart to her and Marie-Francine, telling them the whole story. Eurydice’s eyes widened at my revelations. Knowing Dorothy so well, she understood, and could only shake her head. “Elle a toujours été fouinarde, ta soeur!” she said. (“Your sister was always meddlesome.”) They pledged to do everything they could to help. I subsequently hired a carriage driven by a free black friend of Marie-Francine’s.
The French Quarter address Dorothy gave me for Andrew looked familiar, and as the carriage approached it, I realized why. It was the home of my grandparents’ friends Madeleine and Jean-Philippe de Saumur, where I had met Martin all those years ago. At the front gate, I was ?ooded with memories of the scent of jasmine that had wafted from their terrace that night.
The de Saumurs, now in their sixties, were delighted to see me. They welcomed me warmly and ordered a servant to bring some champagne to the smaller parlor. After a couple of glasses, I produced the fake document of ownership that Tom had drawn up and validated with his o?cial embossed stamp.
“It pains me to tell you this,” I said politely, “but you have one of my slaves working here for you.”
They greeted this with disbelief. Monsieur de Saumur put on his glasses and read through the document. “Andrew Tyler?” He showed it to his wife and together they nodded and discussed it in French.
“It must be our Napoléon you are referring to, Emily. You say he ran away from you?”
“Yes, it has taken me some time to ?nd him.”
Monsieur de Saumur was furious. “A runaway! This is a serious crime he has committed. You realize we paid sixteen hundred dollars for him at auction? He was in irons. The city was selling him. They said he didn’t belong to anyone. Your sister told us about him.”
“Yes, I knew you’d bought him.” I took out my checkbook. “My sister misunderstood about me wanting him back. But I am prepared to offer you full compensation.” This changed things considerably and his bonhomie returned. As I handed him the check, he ordered “Napoléon” to appear in the parlor.
A few minutes later, Andrew entered the room.
It was much like the ?rst time he came to me in the darkness of my bedroom at Wreckers’. I’d been waiting for him to come up from his shower for what seemed like an eternity. I even fretted that he might not come. And ?nally, there he was, removing his clothing as the light from the tower stretched over him, playing on the glossy curves of his muscles.
Now, as he came into the parlor, I had to take a long, slow breath as our eyes locked. I had never seen him look so handsome and distinguished. He was dressed in formal livery for serving at dinner, complete with a white dress shirt, white silk gloves, and a cravat. He was still as slim as I remembered; his hair had begun to be salted with gray, which made him look mature and dashing. My heart fairly leaped from my chest; even after all these years, my feelings had not changed, and I wanted nothing more than to run into his arms.
He gasped when he saw me.
I fought to look back at him coolly, without emotion: “Yes, that’s him.”
Monsieur de Saumur jumped to his feet. “So, you are surprised to see her, eh?” he shouted at him. “Maudit salaud!” Bringing his hand back, he hit Andrew hard across the face, and I felt as though he had punched me in the stomach. I waved frantically for him to stop, but he misunderstood. To me, he said, “We’ll be happy to have him whipped for you. Or I could have his ears cut off.” He lowered his voice: “La Code Noir … We’re not really supposed to do it anymore, but …”
“No!” I shouted. He looked startled.
I recovered my normal voice. “No. I will deal with him when I get back to Key West. Just put him in chains and give me the key. My driver will help me.”
The de Saumurs ordered “Napoléon” to remove their ?ne livery for his successor. Five minutes later, he emerged, chained and wearing Martin’s ragged clothing; he was once again the beloved Andrew I remembered from Wreckers’ Cay.
In the carriage, I closed the curtain between us and the driver. “Let’s get these off!” I whispered, quickly unlocking Andrew’s chains.
As his shackles tumbled away, he held out his arms. “Hello, Emily,” he said at last in his velvety baritone. “Thanks for coming by.”
“Hello, Andrew,” I said with a wide grin as I fell into them.
I couldn’t believe I had pulled it off! I was barely able to touch him without shaking. The toll of Andrew’s recent hardships were marked indelibly on his face. But he was still a very handsome picture. He kissed me gently as he ran his ?ngers through my hair. “God, Emily, is it really you?”
So many years away from each other, I thought. Yet, it was as though we’d never been apart. I clung to him tenaciously, fearing he might disappear through my ?ngers like sand. Brie?y, he held me away from him.
“Let me look at you. You’re more beautiful than ever, darlin’.”
“Do you still care about me?”
“What a question, Emily! What a question.” He kissed me then, a long, ardent kiss, like the ones locked in my memory that had sustained me all those years. I could barely speak.
It was time to ?nd Ebony. I left Andrew with Marie-Francine and Eurydice, and had the same carriage taxi me to the Garden District address Dorothy had given me. I presented my card to the servant who opened the door: “Please tell Mrs. Rathbone I am Dorothy Farrell’s sister from Key West.”
Moments later, I was ushered into a vast parlor, where I was soon joined by a small, slight woman in her early thirties with thin, limp brown hair, a weak chin, and rodentlike eyes set too close together. I vaguely remembered her from school; she was just Dorothy’s age.
“How very lovely to see you, Miss Emily,” she said, greeting me enthusiastically. “Dorothy mentions you often in her letters. May I offer you some tea? Or coffee?”
“No, thank you, Miss Gladys. I can’t stay. I just wanted to drop by and pay my respects. Dorothy sends her regards.”
We continued in this friendly vein for a few minutes before I said, “I’m also here to discuss a business proposition with you.” She raised her eyebrows. Without more preamble, I drew out my fake document of ownership authored by Tom and asked her permission to remove my slave, Ebony.
She examined it for a few minutes before handing it back to me. “No, I’m afraid not. This document might mean something in Florida, but I doubt it would stand up here. You’re talking about the girl I call Penelope. I bought her from the nuns for several hundred dollars.”
I sighed. Were there no honest people left? Her letter had said twenty dollars. I wanted to remind her that buying a child under the age of eleven without a parent was against the law in Louisiana. But I was not about to argue.
I took out my checkbook and offered her one thousand dollars for “Penelope,” a price that would normally have bought a full-grown healthy woman at any auction in the South. The usual price for children Ebony’s age sold with a parent was about $450, or less.
She peered at me for a long moment; I began to feel sweat trickling down my back. Finally, she shook her head. “No, Miss Emily, I’m sorry. I couldn’t possibly! She’s a terrible servant now, but I feel that with the right discipline, she could become a halfway decent worker. After all, we’ve been putting up with her now for several months. If I thrash her enough, she’ll eventually learn to stop dropping my pretty china.”
I was so angry, I wanted to strike her. But I had already devised a backup plan, so instead, I put away my checkbook, smiled sweetly, and rose to leave. “Good day, Mrs. Rathbone.” I resisted the urge to slam the door on my way out.
By the time I settled back into the carriage, the alternative idea had taken shape in my ungovernable mind. Money does talk. I was convinced of it. I had just not directed its honeyed tongue in the right direction. I gave the driver yet another address from Dorothy’s list.
As we arrived at the First Delta Savings Bank, I stepped down from the carriage and told my driver to wait. With directions from a bank employee standing outside, I walked purposefully up the marble stairs, petticoats swishing, heels echoing my determination, and barged into Mr. Rathbone’s o?ce. He was in the middle of conferring with a subordinate and looked up quizzically. I stood there for a moment, saying nothing. Then I found my voice. “Mr. Rathbone, may I have a word?”
He was a rather homely man of about forty, with pale, spotty skin and thick spectacles. “Leave us,” he said to the younger gentleman, who quickly rose and left. Rathbone stood, smiling as he reached his hand out in greeting, and I noted how large his teeth were, climbing over one another, far too big for his mouth.
“I don’t usually see people without an appointment. Is this something important?”
“Mr. Rathbone … I’m Emily Salas, Dorothy Farrell’s sister. Our grandfather was Jean-Jacques Lacordaire.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Mr. Lacordaire. Well known in the community. Sorry to hear of his passing.” He had suddenly became cordial. “May I offer you some tea? Lemonade?”
“No, thank you. I’m here to discuss a proposition with you, Mr. Rath—”
“Herbert,” he said, interrupting me. He indicated the seat across from him. Then sitting down, he laced his hands together.
“I won’t take up much of your time.” Carefully, I weighed what I had rehearsed in the carriage: “My grandfather has left me a considerable legacy. And I’ve come to see if you would welcome my account … here. At your bank.”
His eyes lit up. My question unleashed a ?urry of obsequious and extravagant compliments. “Why, that would be wonderful, Miss Emily! I’d be most honored to have you transfer your accounts to us. Believe me, we would provide you with excellent personal service. Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” He was smiling so widely now, his lips had peeled back beyond the equine teeth, showing a broad expanse of gum.
I shook my head. “No, thank you.” I paused. “There is a condition, however.”
“A condition?”
“Yes.” Now I reverted to being a sweet and demure southern lady. “I would ask a huge favor of you, sir.” I smiled.
“Yes, yes. Anything …” he replied, leaning toward me.
“The child … the young slave you and your wife bought from the nuns … Penelope? She is actually my property, as I own her father.”
I showed him my document.
He examined it closely. “Penelope?” He seemed to be trying to remember which of his servants she was. Then a look of recognition settled on his face. “Oh, Penelope. Of course. The child who breaks things!” He seemed relieved and laughed. “You want her? We had no idea she belonged to anyone.”
“Yes. I would like to have her back.”
He looked incredulous, but didn’t argue. “Why, then, if she’s yours, of course, She must be returned to you. In any case, I’m sure my wife will be more than happy to be rid of her.”
I simply smiled. “Why, then, that makes it of bene?t to all of us! Could you please send for her?”
“Today?”
I nodded. “Yes. Now. Then I will make the arrangements to change over my account. I want to take her back to Key West with me tomorrow morning.”
It was as easy as that. Within the half hour it took to draw up, sign, and witness the papers to change banks, my daughter was dropped off at the front door with a paper bag containing her things by the slave who’d admitted me to their home. As she had been instructed, the woman helped her into my waiting taxi. To my surprise, she leaned down and kissed Ebony on the forehead, whispered something to her, and then disappeared into the busy street.
When I left the o?ce, I felt as if my heels never touched the marble of the bank’s lobby. Ebony looked bewildered as I climbed in next to her in the carriage. She was a beautiful little child, as I knew she would be, with skin the color of café con leche and bright blue eyes, enhanced by long, sooty lashes.
“Oh, Ebony, how grown up you are!” I held her little hands in mine, taking her in as I fought to keep from crying. “You’ve become a proper young lady.”
Ebony giggled shyly. She was dressed in a threadbare frock and her tiny toes peaked out from holes in her worn shoes, but she was neat and clean, and her hair had been nicely braided—probably by the slave who treated her kindly. But I was dismayed to see some welts on her legs from a switch.
“Ebony, honey, I’m taking you to be with your daddy. Would you like that?”
Although she did not appear to be surprised, her eyes brightened, and she nodded. I kissed her soft cheek and she cuddled up to me. I wanted so much to blurt out “I’m your mama.” But it was too soon. Besides, I wanted Andrew to be there, so we could tell her together. I put my arm around her and experienced that splendid maternal rush I’d always felt when I held my children. In that, at least, nothing had changed. We drove the rest of the way in silent contentment.
Back at the small, neat home of Eurydice and Marie-Francine, we celebrated our joyful reunion. Andrew had been correct at Wreckers’ when he hinted that they were family. Eurydice told me Grandpère had been her paramour for many years. Marie-Francine, now eighteen, was indeed his daughter: my half aunt.
It was touching to see Andrew and Ebony together. He hugged her and swung her around, making her laugh. He playfully planted a kiss on each of her cheeks and they rubbed noses—as little Hannah had taught him to do at Wreckers’ Cay. And then he o?cially introduced us. Squatting down, he held her hands. “Ebony, darlin’, remember your beautiful white mama I always told you about … and how she still loved you?”
She smiled up at me and nodded.
“I never forgot about you,” I assured her as I applied some balm Francine gave me for the welts. “And tomorrow, you and your daddy are coming with me on a big boat to my house in Key West.”
Ebony immediately loved Eurydice, who made us a wonderful jambalaya and corn bread for supper. And she delighted in Marie-Francine, who played chasing games with her in the garden. Poor Ebony had not had much time to learn about play.
We spent the evening getting to know one another. When it came time for bed, Eurydice, with a discreet smile, insisted Andrew and I take their big bedroom.
“Il est beau, ton mari. Et ta petite aussi!” she whispered to me. (“Your husband is good-looking. And so is your daughter!”)
Yes, he is my husband, I re?ected. Back by my side.
I brought the lamp into the bedchamber and placed it on the nightstand. Then our eyes met in its ?ickering glow and I hurriedly made to rip off my clothes. But he stopped me with a gentle motion of his hands. “Whoa, whoa. Not so fast. What’s your hurry, darlin’? We have lots of time.”
Slowly, he began to ease off my clothing, kissing me with utmost gentleness, one part of my body at a time. He nuzzled my neck while he removed my frock, pressed his cheeks to my breasts as he unlaced and took off my bustier. Then he removed my pantalets, caressing my navel, and skillfully worked his way down. Gently picking me up, he placed me down on the bed, leaving me to tingle with anticipation as he removed his own clothes.
He was lying next to me in just a few moments. As he’d showered while I was out, the fragrance of soap lingered on his smooth, silky skin, further exciting me. He moved down and parted my legs, kissing and caressing until, quite suddenly, he was inside me. I caught my breath, and arched my back to drive him deeper. By this time, I was whimpering—no, begging. I had waited ?ve years for this moment.
Afterward, our passion spent—at least temporarily—we lay in each other’s arms, breathing and touching each other tenderly as we whispered endearments. And I re?ected how the French writer Stendhal described the transformation of a lover’s ordinary characteristics into sparkling perfection—a mental metamorphosis he called “crystallization.” There had certainly been plenty of sex with Pedro. But I could only marvel at how dissimilar it was. Because I loved Andrew, I viewed him through the perfect beauty of a glittering crystal. It was quite extraordinary, really, loving someone like that. It made all the difference in the world.
The next morning, I handed him a peace offering Dorothy had sent him. When he opened the little package, he burst out laughing: It was a clay pipe and a snuff box containing weed from her garden.
I finally felt whole again; I had my family back. I could embrace life as before. Andrew and I talked and planned all the way back to Key West, and we did not stop after we arrived. We knew we could not live openly as husband and wife. But we could live together. I would just have to tell everyone that he was a slave I had bought on my recent trip to New Orleans.
“I would like to tell the whole world that you’re my husband—and that she’s my daughter.”
He shook his head. “You know it’s not possible.”
Yes, I knew. I would have to be happy with what we had. At least we were as one again. Back in Key West, we walked together out the French doors to the garden, standing in the shadows, watching our daughter play. She looked so happy, and pretty in the new clothing I’d bought her in New Orleans. I leaned back into Andrew and I felt his arms pull me gently. We stood there in silence, and for a few moments, I let myself believe we were standing again at our bedroom window, watching the light caress the island at Wreckers’ Cay.