Chapter 26
Sacramento City
May 1854
Isabelle paced in the kitchen between the wooden counter and oven. Stephan stood quietly by the bundle of flowers delivered from the gardens that afternoon, waiting for her to speak.
She was angry at her steward. Angry at herself.
She was supposed to keep her loathing of slavery secret, and yet the resentment inside her flared, jetting up like a waterspout. If she couldn’t control her anger, Alden might remember her too.
She shuddered to think what might happen if he did remember.
Years ago, Isabelle used to watch him when he visited the Duvall’s, wondering if he would choose to follow in the way of his brother-in-law and father or if one day he might emancipate the people he owned. But Alden had grown up now, becoming another Master Payne. Apparently, he’d selected California as his residence over the Virginia plantation, and he’d brought the horrific institution of slavery west with him.
No one here suspected that she’d once been enslaved. Her skin—even slathered with the cucumber-and-lemon cream—might be a shade darker than some of the people from the East Coast, but other women’s skin darkened here in the sun. In Virginia, Mrs. Duvall had called her a mulatto—a constant reminder that while her skin was a light olive color, Negro blood ran through her veins. In the Southern states, she would always be considered a slave.
But Aunt Emeline hadn’t called her a slave. She’d called her beloved—helping lighten her skin, purchase a new wardrobe, educate her with a private tutor so she could escape her past. Reinvent herself as a treasured niece. With the power of a new name and wardrobe, Isabelle became a new person. And with the love and care of her adopted uncle and aunt, she thrived.
She wanted to be faithful to help children like Isaac, but she didn’t want Mr. Payne staying in her hotel, didn’t want to hear any stories about his life in Virginia or live with the constant threat of something sparking his recollection. Nor did she want to be reminded about the horror she’d left behind or the memory of the baby she’d held in her arms for a glimpse of a moment before he slipped away.
She unwrapped the string holding together the parcel of flowers, trying to focus on the beauty of the coral chrysanthemums, lavender peonies, and creamy-white iris. She couldn’t allow herself to journey back again in her mind, to the pain buried deeply in the recesses of her heart.
Even if Stephan didn’t know about her past, he shouldn’t have stepped in like that, undermining her authority in front of Alden and his boy.
Finally, she looked back up at him. “I don’t want them staying here.”
“Them?” he asked cautiously. “Or is it just the master you don’t want in the hotel?”
“The master,” she retorted. “I don’t want him or any other slave owner as a guest.”
“But we can do more good if the boy and his master stay right here, under our roof, than if they stay in another hotel.”
She shook her head. “I won’t be an accomplice to the evil.”
“But what if we could overcome the evil?” Stephan lowered his voice. “We could help the boy escape.”
“If he went missing like Micah, Rodney would put us both in jail.”
“We’ll find a way,” he insisted.
She wanted to be faithful like Aunt Emeline, but if her past were exposed, it would ruin everything for her here in Sacramento—her reputation and her business. No one would want to stay in a hotel run by a Negro—a former slave—no matter how elegant the décor or delicious the food. And much worse, Alden might put her back into chains and return her to Victor Duvall.
She shivered. So much had changed in the past nine years, yet it didn’t matter in the eyes of the law how strong or intelligent or capable she was. The color of her skin didn’t even matter. Negro blood lapped inside her veins, flowing down from her mother’s side of the family.
The blood siphoned from her father didn’t count. Men could legally impregnate any of their slaves—married and maiden women alike—in order to add to their chattel. The more slaves to sell, the more money to be had. And somehow, they were able to deny these slaves were also their children. They sold their sons and daughters without grieving the loss.
She picked up two of the mums, slipping the stems into a vase.
But what if Stephan was right? What if she could help the boy in her lobby find freedom? She’d been angry when Fanny accused her of being selfish, but in this case, perhaps it was true. A great opportunity had been set before her—she could not only help a child but also free a Payne slave from the torment of his master.
But what if they sent her back to Virginia in his place?
The vase shook when she shuddered.
It would be worth everything, she told herself, if this boy could be free. Redemption, in a sense, for what she had lost.
Thank God she hadn’t told Ross about her past before he had left Sacramento. She couldn’t allow herself to think he might have used it against her, but if Fanny found out, she might have used the information to her advantage.
She would have to find a way to obtain freedom for this boy while keeping her secret intact.
She pumped water into a pitcher at the sink and added it to the vase before speaking again. “Will you register them for me?”
Stephan nodded.
“They can stay—as long as they obey the rules.”
“Of course.” Stephan stepped toward the door. “We’ll find a way to help the boy.”
After she finished arranging the flowers, Isabelle fled into the rooms vacated by Fanny and Ross. There were no more guests to register for the hotel, and dinner guests wouldn’t begin arriving until five.
Sitting on the rocking chair, she swayed back and forth, looking out at the herbs growing in the courtyard between the buildings. And the aching began to bleed out of the recesses inside her.
She’d tried so hard to escape the memories when she’d left the Duvall house. The memories returned to her some nights, in her nightmares, but it was daylight now, and they still returned with a vengeance, the realities of what happened years ago pressing against her chest, feeling as if they might suffocate her.
The hatred in her heart was still there, with a vengefulness that she’d never imagined. The guilt and shame—though Aunt Emeline told her over and over that she had done nothing wrong.
But her aunt didn’t know everything. She didn’t know about the baby Isabelle had brought into the world but couldn’t keep alive. The baby her milk should have sustained.
She rocked back and forth again, and tears filled her eyes, unbidden.
Victor was a wicked man. She knew that now. With Uncle William and Aunt Emeline’s help, she’d learned what was right and loving and good in a family. But the most painful memories from Virginia weren’t the ones of Victor. The hardest ones were of the morning she’d lost her son.
The day of his death and the ones that followed bled together in a collective blur. She’d experienced true happiness for the first time in her life when she held her child in her arms. For the first time, she too had family, like the Paynes. Someone to belong to. Someone to love her in return.
But she’d been too young to care for him.
Incompetent.
That was the word Mrs. Duvall used as the carriage bumped along the road that warm spring day. It was a word that had stitched itself to her heart and her mind. Any tugging on the thread ripped at her very core.
On that terrible journey, her mistress had given her something for her pain, something that plunged her into a dark sleep. When she woke again, she was in a soft bed in Baltimore. Mrs. Duvall was gone, Aunt Emeline sitting at her side.
Blinking, she glanced around her room. Stephan had already moved her trunk down from the top floor to the foot of the double bed. Inside, buried under clothes and a coverlet, she found the baby blanket she’d crocheted before her son was born—an ivory-and-teal pattern from yarn left over from a blanket she’d made for Mrs. Duvall when the woman thought she was expecting.
Isabelle lifted the blanket and nuzzled her cheek against it. This memento was all she had left of her beautiful boy.
Someone knocked on her door, and she tucked the blanket back into her trunk before closing the lid. Then she wiped her eyes with a handkerchief.
She had to hide again behind the façade that had become so familiar in Uncle William and Aunt Emeline’s care. Not that they required her to pretend; they just saw her as someone she was not. As the woman she—and they—wanted her to be. A woman she needed to become.
When she opened the door, she found Mr. Payne’s boy waiting for her. In his hands was the stem of a rose—a delicate peach-colored flower that was just daring to unfold.
But she never bought roses from the floral garden. They reminded her too much of Victor Duvall.
She eyed it skeptically. “Where did you get that?”
“From a man selling them outside.” He held the stem out to her. “Thank you for letting us stay.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said, taking the rose from him. The fragrance was as delicate as the color. The aroma of beauty and spring.
He held out his hand. “My name’s Isaac.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Isaac.” She reached out her hand to shake his. “My name is Isabelle Labrie.”
“You have an awfully pretty name.”
She smiled. “I’m glad you approve of it.”
“And you serve the best lemonade I’ve ever tasted.”
She tilted her head. “Do you need something?”
“Just to say thank you.” He paused, and she waited for him to give the real reason for his visit. “And to let you know that Master Payne is a fine man. He treats his slaves right.”
She nodded warily, not about to argue the evils of slavery with a child, especially if he thought his master was kind. When the time was right, she and Stephan would offer him the freedom to become his own master. To treat himself with even more respect than his owner did.
“He better keep treating you well.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And if you need anything”—she tapped on the door—“you know where to find me.”
He smiled. “And if you ever need anything, you know where to find me too.”
“That’s right, I do.”
Sadness flooded her heart again as she collapsed down on the bed, clutching the rose in her hand. If her son had lived, he would have been about Isaac’s age.