Candle In The Darkness Part 8

She straightened, still holding a pile of folded clothes in her hands. She looked puzzled. "Excited? I ain't going on the train with you, Missy."

"What?"

"Oh, child . . . didn't they tell you? I staying here. I thought you knew."

I ran from the room, raced down the curved stairs, and barged into my father's library without knocking.

"I've changed my mind," I told him. "I don't want to go to Philadelphia."

It took him a moment to recover from my outburst. He looked disoriented, disheveled, the gla.s.s in his hand nearly empty. His shirtfront was wrinkled and stained, his usually neat hair unkempt, his face flushed. "It's too late now. I've purchased your train ticket, made all the traveling arrangements, notified the school. You're going to Philadelphia."

"You didn't tell me Tessie wasn't coming. I don't want to go without Tessie."

He looked away. "Well, I'm sorry, but Tessie can't go. It's out of the question."

"Why? Why can't she go?"

He tried to relight his cigar, but his hands shook so badly he couldn't strike the match. "People do things differently up north. They don't have Negro mammies, for one thing. And they don't care very much for people who do. The abolitionists and free Negroes will fill her head with crazy talk about running away."

"Tessie would never run away from me."

"Don't be too sure. It's different up there, you'll see. Tessie would be out of place, like a fish out of water. Ever see what happens when you take a fish out of water?"

"I need Tessie-"

"No! I need her here!" He picked up the whiskey bottle, sloshing it all over his desk as he poured another drink. This man wasn't my daddy. I couldn't bear to watch him toss back his head and drain the gla.s.s. I stalked to the door.

"You're sixteen now," he said as I reached it. "It's time you outgrew your mammy."

I stumbled up the stairs, trying not to cry. I was afraid that if I started I wouldn't be able to stop again. I would never never outgrow my mammy. Hadn't Ruby been my mother's mammy all her life? outgrow my mammy. Hadn't Ruby been my mother's mammy all her life?

Tessie came to me as soon as I walked into the room. Her beautiful face was etched with concern. She rubbed my shoulders and stroked my hair, murmuring, "I thought you knew, baby. I thought they told you."

"Would you be a fish out of water if you went with me?" I asked, still fighting my tears.

"Is that what your daddy say?"

"Yes. And he said he needs you here." Her hands froze. She looked at me with an odd expression on her face, but it pa.s.sed before I could define it.

"Your girl cousins won't have mammies in Philadelphia," she said, her hands caressing my shoulders again. "They be jealous of you if I there to fuss all over you. Best thing for you is to fit in, do like they do when you up north."

"But I'll miss you!"

She pulled me close, hugging me so tightly I could scarcely breathe. I heard sniffing and knew she was crying, too.

"Baby, you like my own child since the day you was born. I couldn't love you more if you my own flesh and blood. But you just about all grown up now. You be wanting a husband to share you room one these days, not an old colored woman like me."

I hugged her tightly in return, my tears finally falling. "You're not old at all. And I'll always want you with me, forever and ever."

But the mention of a husband reminded me that Tessie was secretly married to Josiah. They saw each other only rarely, but maybe she didn't want to go away to Philadelphia where she would never see him.

"I've made up my mind," I said firmly. "I've decided to go to Hilltop instead of Philadelphia. I'll go tell Daddy. He'll let you come with me to Hilltop."

She caught my arm in time to pull me back. "Listen, child. Your daddy won't let me go there, either. I certain of that."

"But why not?" Tessie didn't answer. I lifted her chin so I could see her face. "Is it because of Josiah? I know you're secretly married-"

"Hush your mouth!" Tessie's eyes went wide with fear. "Don't you ever say such a thing in this house!"

"Is that why Daddy sold Josiah to Hilltop . . . so you couldn't be together?"

She pulled me into her arms, smothering my words as if trying to smother flames. "Child, don't you go around opening doors that are better off closed and locked. It only lead to trouble- especially for Josiah. Forget you ever ask all these questions. Leave things the way they are. Promise?"

I nodded.

"You go on with your aunt to Philadelphia. Then, if you don't like it there, you can always come on home to Richmond again. And I be here waiting for you."

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I watched Eli carry my trunk downstairs to the carriage the next morning and wondered who I would share all my troubles with in Philadelphia, who would answer all my questions. Gilbert was driving us to the train station, so this was the last time I would see Eli. The thought of saying good-bye to him made my heart ache inside, but when he returned to my room for the last load, I knew I had to try.

"I wish I didn't have to go away to Philadelphia," I said.

He nodded, his gray head bowed in grief. "I know . . . I know. Sure won't be the same around here without my Little Missy. No one asking me questions all the time . . . no one to drive to school. . . ."

I was a grown girl of sixteen, too old for a mammy, too old to sit on Eli's lap and listen to his stories. But when he finally looked up at me and I saw the love and the tears in his eyes, I was a child again. I ran into his arms. He hugged me as tightly as Tessie had.

"I'll miss you so much, Eli!"

"Me too, Little Missy . . . me too." When we finally let go, he wiped my tears with his thumb. "You remember to hide all them words I teach you in your heart . . . you hear?"

I nodded, tapping my chest the way Grady used to do. "They're in there, Eli."

"And anything too big for you, just take it to Ma.s.sa Jesus."

"I will." I thought about Eli's terrible secret, the secret that could get him killed. I stood on tiptoe to kiss his bearded cheek and whispered, "Be careful, Eli." Then I turned away so I wouldn't have to watch him go.

Chapter Seven.

Philadelphia, February 1857.

Our train arrived in Philadelphia in the middle of a blizzard. I'd never felt such cold, damp air before, or a wind that sucked away my breath the way this one did. My uncle, Judge Philip Hoffman, had come to the station with a driver and a sleigh to meet us, but I remember little else of that day except the bitter cold and my aching homesickness-a longing that had increased with every mile that separated me from Richmond and the people I loved.

In the months to come, I would visit all of Center City's famous landmarks and sights, but on that first day, places such as Penn Square and Independence Hall were hidden behind a blinding curtain of white. I knew we had crossed the Schuylkill River into West Philadelphia only because Uncle Philip told me we had. He was a portly, dignified man with receding hair and piercing eyes. I could easily imagine how his stern demeanor would strike fear in any criminals who stood trial before him, yet he was very gentle and kind to me. As we traveled through the storm, he asked me politely about my journey and the accommodations on the train. I couldn't answer; my mouth and my heart seemed as frozen as the landscape. I was grateful when Aunt Martha signaled for him to stop with a gentle shake of her head.

The horses labored uphill through the snow, coming at last to a wealthy residential suburb and a large gray stone house that blended seamlessly with the snowy street and colorless sky. We were home.

The introductions pa.s.sed in a blur. I learned that my cousins' names were Rosalie and Julia, but the Hoffmans employed more immigrant serving girls and chambermaids than I could ever hope to keep track of.

"I imagine you're tired from the long trip," Aunt Martha said when we'd finished a light supper. "Heaven knows I'm exhausted, too."

As I climbed the wide stairs to the large bedroom my cousins and I would share, Julia danced around me like a happy puppy, eager to please. A chambermaid had lit a blazing fire, and the bedroom was warm, the bed inviting. The maid, who barely spoke English, helped me shed my traveling clothes. The truth still hadn't sunk in that this room wasn't simply a place to rest for a night or two, but my home for the next few months, perhaps years.

"Don't overwhelm her, girls," I heard my aunt telling my cousins outside the door. "Remember, Caroline has recently lost her mother. Give her time to grieve."

As I crawled between the linen sheets, however, the sorrow I felt wasn't only grief for a mother I barely knew, a mother who had chosen to leave me, but a deep yearning for the beloved servants who had raised me and nurtured me, and who'd had no choice at all in our parting.

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For the first month, the memory of Esther's fragrant kitchen, filled with all the people I loved, remained fresh and clear, a tiny pocket of solace and warmth amid the ice and cold of Philadelphia. I dwelt on those memories, fanning them like embers to keep them alive, anxious for them not to die-the sound of Eli's deep, rumbling voice as he talked to Ma.s.sa Jesus; the touch of Tessie's dark hands as they gently soothed, caressed, loved. I kept thoughts of Virginia burning like tiny flames as I counted the weeks and the months until I could return.

The morning in March when everything changed began innocently enough-with Uncle Philip reading the Philadelphia Inquirer Philadelphia Inquirer as he did every morning at breakfast. His choice to read rather than to give his full attention to my aunt was a constant source of friction between the two of them. Because of it, he'd developed the habit of reading a sentence or two aloud every now and then so his wife couldn't accuse him of ignoring her. as he did every morning at breakfast. His choice to read rather than to give his full attention to my aunt was a constant source of friction between the two of them. Because of it, he'd developed the habit of reading a sentence or two aloud every now and then so his wife couldn't accuse him of ignoring her.

"I see Pierce Butler's mansion here in town is going up for sale," he said, adjusting his rimless spectacles. Aunt Martha's interest was instantly piqued.

"Oh? That's a lovely home. I know several people who might be interested in buying it."

"Well, it should sell for a bargain. It seems Butler ran up enormous gambling debts. But listen to this . . . this is truly tragic. 'A racetrack in Savannah, Georgia, was converted into a slave auction to dispose of 436 of Butler's Negro slaves. The unfortunate men, women, and children-who dubbed the event "The Weeping Time"-were sold to the highest bidder without regard for family ties, earning a total of $303,850 toward Butler's debts.' My! That should add fuel to the abolitionists' fires!"

"I'm sure that's an exaggeration," Aunt Martha said. "That seems like an awfully large number of slaves. I certainly don't recall any plantations around Richmond having that many, do you, Caroline? How many darkies does your uncle work with at Hilltop?"

"Um . . . about fifty." I could barely answer. I recalled the terrible anxiety that had gripped Hilltop's slaves after my grandfather had died, their tension and their fear as they'd waited, wondering who would be sold. I could well imagine the grief Pierce Butler's slaves must have suffered.

"I don't understand how people can own own other people," my cousin Julia said, "much less buy and sell them like a new hat. That seems very wrong." other people," my cousin Julia said, "much less buy and sell them like a new hat. That seems very wrong."

"That's because you girls were raised with servants, not slaves," my aunt replied. Her Virginia drawl, undetectable in most social situations, always became more p.r.o.nounced whenever she grew annoyed. "Not every slave owner treats his people as callously as Pierce Butler did. Why, some of the slaves back home are just like family, aren't they, Caroline? And they certainly receive better treatment than the immigrants who labor in Northern factories. You've seen South Philadelphia where they live, Julia. n.o.body provides those people with free clothing and food like we give our slaves."

I recalled my cousin Jonathan once voicing a similar argument.

"That may be true, my dear," Uncle Philip said, folding his newspaper. "But Northern factory workers are free to leave their place of employment whenever they choose. And they don't have their families torn from their arms like these poor souls did."

I pushed my plate away, unable to eat any more. The newspaper account had changed everything for me. The happy memories of home that I'd been keeping alive were suddenly overwhelmed by a flood of uglier ones-memories of dirt-floored shacks on Slave Row, of mothers who'd rather see their babies die than be sold, of the slave market on Fourteenth Street. And the still-vivid memory of Grady being dragged away, screaming for his mother.

I reread the newspaper account of "The Weeping Time" for myself after my uncle left for work, and I could no longer bear to think of home. The fire of longing that I'd nurtured had been coldly extinguished. I didn't want to go back to a place where 436 men, women, and children could be sold and separated from their loved ones like cattle. I wanted to forget that the people I loved- Tessie and Eli and Esther-were my father's property.

It proved easy to forget home, to lose myself in the rush and dazzle of life in Philadelphia. Everything about the city was frantic and fast-paced compared to Richmond, from the traffic that clogged the streets to the boisterous activity and lively visitors that filled and sometimes overflowed the house. My aunt and cousins were swept up in an almost endless series of parties, b.a.l.l.s, and social gatherings, and I allowed them to carry me away with them. Since Cousin Rosalie and her mother were on a mission to find Rosalie a husband, every social occasion became a hunting expedition.

Rosalie was seventeen, a year older than me, and her life revolved entirely around meeting, wooing, and marrying the best possible "catch" in all of Philadelphia. As the daughter of a prominent, wealthy judge, she could well afford to be choosy. She was a very pretty girl-many said beautiful-with fine brown hair, hazel eyes, and the sort of fragile, delicate bone structure that made men rush to protect and a.s.sist her. But as I grew to know Rosalie, her excruciating perfectionism in matters of her clothing, her hair, and her toiletries-not to mention the importance she placed on her suitors' wealth and social status-diminished her beauty in my eyes. I grew to think of her as "pointy"; her nose and chin were pointy, her eyebrows as thin and as pointy as knife blades, her elbows and knees bony and sharp. But her tongue was by far the most pointed of all. I quickly learned to agree with her, to defer to her, and above all, to never, never outshine her.

Cousin Julia, who was still too young for a husband, wanted one anyway and flirted shamelessly, falling in love with a new beau every week. She was fifteen and still very much her father's spoiled pet. Physically, the two girls were as different as sisters could be. Julia was not fat, but everything about her was soft and full-her pouty lips, her pink cheeks, her dark brown eyes, her ample bosom. The latter was a constant source of jealousy on Rosalie's part, since she wasn't nearly as well endowed. Julia's golden brown, naturally curly hair was soft and full as well, and when she unpinned it, she looked as angelic as a cherub in an ill.u.s.trated Bible. But her cherubic appearance belied her lively, unreserved personality.

Of course, we needed to be fashionably clothed for every social occasion, so Aunt Martha hired a dressmaker. She outfitted all four of us in day dresses for afternoon social calls and for entertaining callers at home, and in ball gowns for parties and evening affairs. I fell in love with the glamour and sway of taffeta petticoats and hoops, the swish and flow of fine silk skirts, the tickle of lace on wrist and neck. I became nearly as vain as Rosalie, primping and posing in front of the mirror, arranging my thick brown hair, admiring my tiny waist and high bosom. I was very pleased with the pretty, grown-up girl who gazed back at me. All this relentless activity helped me forget home, and as I watched my aunt in her unguarded moments, I sometimes wondered if it helped her forget, too.

Because I was somewhat of a novelty in Philadelphia-the Hoffmans' Southern cousin with her quiet, velvety drawl-the invitations poured through our mail slot. All my life I'd been painfully shy and fearful of new situations, and although that hadn't changed much, it proved no deterrent to my flowering social life. Rosalie was scheming and socially determined, fearing no one; Julia was lively and outgoing, fearing nothing; I simply floated in their wake. My natural shyness and reserve became part of my mystique as a Southern belle. And if the Hoffmans' cousin Robert was with me, I didn't even have to finish my own sentences-he finished them for me.

Robert Hoffman had become a fixture around our house that spring. He was Rosalie and Julia's cousin, not mine, and he lived on the same street that we did. Since his family was invited to most of the same social functions we were, Robert a.s.sumed the duty of escorting me. When the weather finally turned nice, he showed me all the sights of Philadelphia, sometimes riding on the new public horsecars that traveled the city streets on iron rails. Robert was fascinated with war, and no matter which site we visited- whether viewing displays of birds and insects at the National Academy of Sciences or strolling in Fairmont Park on a Sunday afternoon-his comments invariably turned into a lengthy monologue about the American Revolution or the second war with the British. Rosalie would tell him plainly to shut up. Julia would sigh and roll her eyes. And both would eventually wander away to leave me his sole audience.

Robert planned to attend West Point Military Academy in the fall, hoping to become a great army general, but I had trouble picturing him as a soldier. He had the same softness that Julia did, like a puppy that hasn't quite outgrown its baby fat. With his dark, glossy hair, swarthy skin, and soulful, down-turned eyes, he reminded me more of a mournful Spanish poet than a spit-andpolish military commander. His palms were sweaty, his monologues boring, and he danced as if his shoes were on the wrong feet, but I clung willingly to his arm, grateful that I didn't have to face new people and new situations all alone.

Robert escorted me to the extravagant ball that was given when the Academy of Music's opera house opened that year, but I quickly lost sight of him in the deluge of young gentlemen requesting the honor of a dance with me. I barely caught the first gentleman's name and a glimpse of his face before he swept me out onto the dance floor. Then the agonizing task of making conversation began.

"Good evening, miss. I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting before."

"Um . . . I'm Caroline Fletcher. Perhaps you know my uncle, Judge Philip Hoffman?"

"Caroline Fletcher," he repeated, imitating my Southern accent. "I must confess that I already knew that, Miss Fletcher. I just wanted to listen to your voice. I love the dreamy way y'all y'all stretch out your words," he said, imitating me again. I excused myself and tried to flee the moment the music stopped, but I was immediately swept away by another would-be suitor. stretch out your words," he said, imitating me again. I excused myself and tried to flee the moment the music stopped, but I was immediately swept away by another would-be suitor.

"Judge Hoffman certainly lives with a house full of beauties," this one told me. "But I believe you're the prettiest one of them all. May I have the honor of calling on you sometime?"

I shook my head. His flattery did not gain my interest. "My uncle does not wish me to accept callers," I lied.

"I hear you're from down south, Miss Fletcher," my next dancing partner said. I'd forgotten his name the moment he'd told it to me.

"Yes. I'm from Richmond, Virginia."

"How many slaves do you own?"

"Why, I don't own any."

"Come now, Miss Fletcher. I'm not criticizing you or anything. I'm just curious to know what it feels like to own a few darkies."

"I really wouldn't know. As I've already told you, I don't own any Negroes."

"Say, you don't have to get in a temper. I've visited down south, and I understand how much your economy depends on slave labor." He lowered his voice to a murmur. "Tell you the truth, I'm on your side. I can't stand the way all these uppity free Negroes strut around Philadelphia."

I turned and walked away from him without even thanking 101 him for the dance.

"You must have read Uncle Tom's Cabin, Uncle Tom's Cabin," my next partner said. "What do you make of it? Are things down south really as horrible as Miss Stowe portrays them?"

"I'm sorry, but I haven't read the book."

"Oh, you should, Miss Fletcher. It's quite a vivid account. But then, you've probably seen firsthand some of the things she describes-husbands and wives sold to different owners, children separated from their mothers, slaves whipped . . ."

I wanted to weep. Everywhere I went, it seemed that people wanted to discuss slavery, yet they talked about it as if it was an abstract concept. It wasn't abstract to me. Slaves were real-life people with individual faces and souls. I knew some of those faces, loved some of those souls, and it broke my heart to be reminded of the truth about them-that Josiah and Tessie weren't allowed to be man and wife; that Grady had been torn without warning from his mother's arms; that Eli could be whipped for secretly preaching about Jesus in the pine grove or killed for knowing how to read.

"It's very warm in here," I said. "Would you mind fetching me some punch?"

"I'd be happy to, Miss Fletcher. You wait right here, now. And don't go wandering off with anyone else, all right?"

As soon as the gentleman disappeared into the crowd, heading for the punch bowl, I searched the sea of faces for Cousin Robert's. When I spotted him talking to an older gentleman in a military uniform, I fled to Robert's side like a drowning woman swimming for a lifeboat. I heard the end of his conversation, and thankfully it wasn't about slavery.

". . . I'm just afraid there won't be any more battles left to fight by the time I get my officer's commission-" Robert stopped when he saw me. "Caroline? What's wrong? You're quite pale."