The moment Otis finished blessing the food, Lizzie turned to him. “You want to know what Roselle did today? She and her friends took off after lunch and didn’t go back to school.” She turned to her daughter, shaking her finger at her. “Now, you better start telling us why. And you better have a real good reason, too.”
Otis held up his hand to calm Lizzie. He had warned her before that bossing and yelling didn’t help matters. It only made Roselle boil up just like Lizzie did when Miz Eugenia started bossing and yelling. Before Roselle had a chance to reply, Otis began speaking quietly to her.
“You know the difference between being a slave and being free, Roselle honey? The difference is knowing how to read and write. If you learn them things, you can be whatever you want to be someday. Nobody will ever own you. But if you stay ignorant, you’ll always be a slave.”
“Besides,” Lizzie added, “you should of heard them white folks laughing and making fun of you for going to school. They’re thinking you’ll never learn anything. You gonna prove them right?”
“Trust your mama and me, Roselle. We want you to have all the things we never did.”
Roselle finally looked up from her plate. “I know you ain’t my papa,” she told Otis. “I remember when it was just Mama and me, before you came along.”
Lizzie bolted to her feet, ready to reach across the table and slap her. Why did Roselle have to bring that up in front of her brothers and hurt Otis’s feelings? “He’s your papa now, and you’re gonna do what he says!”
Otis held up his hand again. “Not having my blood doesn’t stop me from loving you like you’re my own, Roselle. Now, kindly tell your mama and me what was more important than going to school today.”
Roselle shrugged. “Nothing . . . I just wanted to get away where nobody’s telling me what to do. Lulu and Corabelle and me didn’t go nowhere. We just walked around town trying to decide what we’d like to do now that we’re free. Lulu says that my skin is light enough that I could ‘pass.’ She says if I went where no one knows me, I could marry a rich white man.”
Lizzie’s skin prickled. “Is that all you want for your life? Marry a white man?”
“Why not? It’s better than this.”
“That’s all that those useless white girls in there want, too,” Lizzie said, gesturing to the dining room. “So, tell me—after you marry this rich man, then what? You gonna sit around all day like they do, cackling like chickens?”
“It’s better than emptying slops. Besides, what else is there?”
Lizzie didn’t know. She had only been free to dream of a different life for a short time. But as she looked at Otis and her sons, seated around the table together, she suddenly knew exactly what she wanted. “Listen to me, Roselle. There ain’t no shame in doing good, honest work. But the ‘something better’ is doing it in my own house, for my own husband and family. It’s being able to look out at that garden and that flock of chickens and know they’re mine. All mine. It’s knowing we’ll get the cream and the milk, not what’s left over when the butter’s all churned. Best of all, it’s building something together with a good, decent man, a man you really love, not some pasty-faced white man you married because he’s rich.”
Otis reached for her hand. His grip felt warm and rough. “We can’t stop you from doing whatever you want to when you’re older,” he told Roselle. “But for now, please stay in school.”
“Because even if you do find a rich white man to marry,” Lizzie finished, “he’ll know exactly who you are if you can’t read or write.”
“Was my real father a white man?”
For a second time, Lizzie nearly bolted from her chair to slap her daughter’s face. Otis’s steadying hand kept her seated. “Never mind about him right now,” she managed to say. “You learn everything they’re teaching you at that school, and someday when you’re all finished I’ll tell you about your father.”
“Promise?”
Lizzie swallowed a wad of fear before replying. “Yes. I promise. Now help me clear the table and wash up these dishes.”
The bell jangled in the dining room just as Lizzie started to stand up. Her shoulders sagged. She couldn’t face Miz Eugenia’s nonsense right now, she just couldn’t. “You go see what she wants,” she told Roselle, “while I toss these scraps to the chickens.” A few minutes away from everyone helped Lizzie slow down and calm down.
She came inside again just as Roselle was returning from the dining room with an armload of dirty dishes. “I hate working for Miz Eugenia,” she grumbled. “I wish I could get me a job someplace else.”
Lizzie knew exactly how her daughter felt. And as badly as she needed Roselle’s help around here, she realized that maybe it would be better for both of them if Roselle got away and worked for somebody else for a while. Lizzie went to the dry sink where her daughter was scraping dishes and put her arm around her slender shoulders.
“Miz Eugenia asked me today if I knew somebody who could work for her friend, Miz Blake. You want me to tell her you’ll go over there for a few hours after school every day? Maybe earn a little money?”
“I’ll think on it,” she said with a shrug.
When the day’s work was finally done, Lizzie closed the door to the Big House and went down to her cabin with her family. Some nights they’d talk for a while, but not tonight. Everyone was too tuckered out. Lizzie lay down beside Otis and held him close.
“What’re we gonna do about Roselle?” she whispered to him in the darkness.
“We’re gonna pray and trust the good Lord, that’s what.”
“I’m scared for her.”
“I know. Me too. But Roselle’s gonna be okay, Lizzie-girl. We just gotta work here a little while longer.”
Lizzie sighed and made up her mind to be patient. She would let the eggs grow into baby chicks, and someday she and Otis would have an entire hen house of their own.
10
MAY 14, 1865
A week ago, if someone had asked Josephine what she wished for, it would have been to escape from her family’s constant complaining. Now her wish had come true, and she was sorry. The moment she awoke on Sunday morning and saw the satchel she had packed to take with her to Mrs. Blake’s house, she realized her life had gone from bad to worse. Josephine would rather live in the woods than with Harrison Blake.
She did feel sorry for his mother, though. Priscilla didn’t deserve all the sorrow that had befallen her. Josephine wouldn’t mind helping her with the household chores until they could hire a new servant, or with planting a kitchen garden so the Blakes would have food to eat. Jo had enjoyed helping Lizzie with the kitchen garden, and she went out there nearly every day when she wanted to get away from her mother and sister. Spending the evening hours with Mrs. Blake would be pleasant, too, since she didn’t complain nearly as much as Mother or continually correct Josephine’s posture or her manners. But how could she stand living with Harrison Blake? Visiting him for a mere hour was like crawling into a badger’s den.
Josephine sighed and climbed out of bed to get ready for church. For some reason, she thought of the Yankee she’d found hiding in her tree house four days ago. What had he said was the secret to happiness? Gratitude. “When you take the time to be grateful for the little things, then those little joys all add up to make you happy.” It couldn’t possibly be true, could it? But as Jo buttoned up her bodice and slipped into her skirt, it did make sense to her that being thankful was the opposite of complaining. Maybe she should try his advice. If Mother complained about not having bacon, Jo would tell her to be grateful they had eggs. When her sister complained about her well-worn dresses, Jo would tell her to be grateful she wasn’t wearing rags like Lizzie.
Josephine opened the bedroom curtains to let in the sunlight and saw that the apple tree down by the garden had burst into bloom. She could certainly be grateful for that. Not only would they have apples to eat in a few months’ time, but the tree was as beautiful as a ruffled bride, her skirts stiff with
petticoats. Who needed lace on their dresses when they had an entire tree wrapped in lacy blooms, right outside their door? Maybe she would pick a handful of blossoms and bring them inside to decorate their table.
Then Josephine remembered she was moving in with bitter, miserable Harrison Blake today. How could she possibly be grateful for that? She turned away from the window, staring at nothing as she tried to think of an answer. She could be grateful that he wasn’t related to her, which meant she didn’t have to see him again after her work there was finished. And she could be very grateful that Harrison Blake wasn’t her husband! The thought made her smile. Maybe gratitude did work, after all.
“What are you grinning at?” Mary asked. She yawned and stretched her arms, thin and pale as new tendrils.
“Nothing. I’m just . . . grateful,” Jo said with a shrug.
“Mother says we mustn’t shrug our shoulders.”
“Mother has too many rules.” Could Josephine be grateful for those, too? She thought about it for a moment and decided that following the rules had helped Mother remain strong—and her strength had kept their family alive throughout the war. So, yes, maybe she could be thankful for Mother’s rules. She gave her sister Mary’s feet a shake and said, “You’d better get up or we’ll be late for church.” Then she sat down in front of the mirror to brush her hair.
Mary climbed out of bed and let out an aggrieved sigh as she peered into their wardrobe. “I have nothing to wear to church except the same old worn-out dress I wore last week.”
“Be grateful the church didn’t burn down during the war,” Josephine replied. “And that we have a horse and carriage to take us there.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. I can’t explain it.” Josephine twisted her hair into a bun and pinned it in place. Then she hurried downstairs to pick a bouquet of apple blossoms for their breakfast table. She would attend church with her family to avoid an argument with her mother, but she would spend the long hour daydreaming, not praying. Prayer had proven to be a waste of time.
Daniel took so long getting ready that he made everyone late for church. Josephine kept her head lowered, embarrassed as she tiptoed into a worship service well under way. How could she be grateful for their tardiness? Now their family would be forced to sit in the rear of the sanctuary among the restless whisperers.
Jo was still trying to find something to be grateful for when she spotted Emma Welch sitting across the aisle from them. She and Harrison had been so in love when they’d announced their engagement five years ago. Jo wondered if Emma had been heartbroken about the canceled engagement or relieved. As the sermon droned on and on, Jo realized that arriving late to church this morning had provided an opportunity to talk to Emma. If her love for Harrison could be rekindled, maybe Josephine wouldn’t have to move in with the Blakes, after all. The moment the service ended, Jo pushed her way out of the pew and crossed the crowded aisle. “Hello, Emma. How are you?” Up close, Emma’s dress looked just as threadbare as Josephine’s did.
“I’m well. And you, Josephine?”
“I’m fine. Listen, can we talk? It’s important.” Jo knew she should chat about the weather and other polite topics for a few minutes instead of blurting everything out right away, but she wasn’t very good at small-talk, much to her mother’s disappointment. They stood aside to allow the other parishioners to move into the aisle, then sat down in the empty pew.
“Mother and I stopped by to visit the Blakes the other day,” Jo began.
“Oh. I see.” Emma looked away, scanning the departing crowd as if wishing someone would call to her so she would have an excuse to leave. “How is Harrison?” she asked.
“He’s still bedridden and requires a great deal of nursing care.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Listen, I need to leave. Will you excuse me, please?”
“Wait. I understand you’re no longer engaged, but Harrison’s spirits are so low and you loved him at one time—”
“Don’t ask me to visit him, Josephine. I confess that I find it very difficult to see him crippled that way. He was so tall and handsome, and now . . . well, his injuries are so horrid.”
“But don’t the Scriptures say that ‘Love beareth all things, endureth all things’? Harrison is still the same man whether he has one leg or two.”
“You’re wrong. He isn’t the same man. The Harrison I knew before the war was kind and loving and full of laughter. The man who returned home from the war isn’t anything like him.”
“But you loved him. Maybe if you took care of him a little longer and nurtured him—”
“I tried, Josephine. I told him I didn’t care about his injuries. But I wasn’t the one who ended the engagement. Harrison was. He said he didn’t want to marry me, and he ordered me to go away. He said terrible things—like he never really loved me to begin with and . . . and I don’t even want to repeat what else he said. He said he would never be able to work or support a wife and a family, and he told me to leave and never come back.”
Josephine could easily imagine him saying all of those things and more. But she continued to argue with Emma, desperate to avoid caring for Harrison herself. “Can’t you give him one more chance? Sooner or later he’ll stop being angry, and maybe he’ll be his old self again.”
“It’s too late. I’ve decided to see other suitors.”
“But if you loved him—”
“Look, I want what every woman wants: a husband and a home and children.”
“But—”
“Josephine, stop! The truth is . . . Harrison told me that he can never have children because of his injuries.” Emma’s cheeks had turned the color of cooked beets, and Jo felt the heat rising to her own cheeks, as well. Such topics were never discussed.
“I have a widowed aunt in Norfolk,” Emma said, looking away again. “I’m moving there in a few weeks to help care for her children. There are more opportunities to meet people in a new city where no one knows that I was once engaged.”
“Won’t you at least say good-bye to Harrison before you leave?” Maybe another visit would rekindle a spark of love or hope.
But Emma shook her head as she rose to her feet. “I’m sorry, Josephine.”
“I wish you well in Norfolk,” she called after her, then sighed in frustration. Why did other people get to move on while Jo remained stuck here like a fly beneath glass? She stood and hurried up the deserted aisle in the opposite direction, fleeing the church through a side door, slamming it behind her. “Gratitude doesn’t work!” she said aloud. “I have nothing to be grateful for!”
She stomped across the church lawn, ignoring the chatting groups of people, pausing only when she saw her sister, Mary. “Tell Mother I’m walking home,” she called to her.
“But it’s too far! Your shoes—”
“I’ll stop when I get tired. You can pick me up along the way.” Josephine’s shoes might be a problem. They were her mother’s and much too small. But Jo wasn’t wearing hosiery, so she was able to slip the painful shoes off her feet and walk barefoot, like a slave woman. She would have to cram them back on before her family caught up with her in the carriage or endure another lecture.
It felt good to get away from everyone and be by herself. Maybe she would walk all the way home—except she wasn’t going home, she remembered. Daniel had loaded her satchel into the back of their carriage. Her spirits sank. What in the world was she going to do about Harrison? If only she could get him out of bed and working his plantation again, then she could return home.
She pushed Harrison out of her mind, trying to be grateful for a sunny day and a few minutes all to herself. But when she rounded a bend in the road, she saw she wasn’t alone. A young man, as tall and thin as a lamppost, was walking slowly down the road ahead of her, stopping every few yards to bend over and pick up a stone or to pluck a blue chicory blossom from alongside the road.
She didn’t recognize him until she got closer and saw clumps
of fuzzy sideburns sprouting below his ears. It was the Yankee from the tree house. What was his name? Mr. Chandler, from the Freedmen’s Bureau. The thought struck her that maybe he could help Harrison. Josephine paused long enough to cram on her shoes, then called out to him, “Mr. Chandler! Mr. Chandler, wait!”
He whirled around, as if surprised to hear his name, and waited for her to catch up to him. He didn’t seem to recognize her at first. Then he grinned and pointed at her. “I know! You’re the young lady with the torn shoe.”
“Yes.” At least he hadn’t mentioned her embarrassing tirade or her tears. “I need to ask your advice, Mr. Chandler.”
“Of course, Miss . . . I don’t believe I learned your name the last time we met.”
“It’s Josephine Weatherly, not that it matters. My question is in regard to a neighbor of mine, Harrison Blake. His family is in need of help to rebuild their plantation. You said that was the purpose of your agency, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “Your friend is welcome to come into my office and—”
“That isn’t possible. Mr. Blake is still recovering from the wounds he suffered during the war. He’s crippled. Bedridden.”
“In that case, I’ll be happy to ride out to his place and speak with him. Where does he live?”
“If you continue down this road toward our plantation, he owns the very first plantation you’ll come to on the right.”
“Would Wednesday morning be a good time to visit?”
“Wednesday will be fine. Thank you.”
Now that she had made the arrangements, Josephine didn’t want to talk with this Yankee a moment longer. She was about to bid him good day when he asked, “Will you be there to make the introductions? I would hate to arrive unannounced. Some people take potshots at Yankees who step onto their property uninvited.” His smile made him look younger than he probably was. And unlike her brother and Harrison Blake, Mr. Chandler seemed buoyant and good-natured, as refreshing as a tin cup of spring water on a hot day. But then Mr. Chandler had been on the winning side of the war. He hadn’t lost nearly everything he owned.